


Negotiations in the Land of Fire and Ice

by DaltonG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bitter Divorce, Greg Whump, Greg's ex is a monster, Iceland AU, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Sexual Harassment, Travelogue, but it gets better, food tw, mystrade, pretending S4 never happened, wipmonth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-03 20:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14004189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaltonG/pseuds/DaltonG
Summary: Life whumps Greg, hard. Mycroft needs someone to assist in a complicated political agreement. Can they help each other?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts).



> This was originally meant for the Mystrade Valentine's Day Advent Calendar of 2018, but it got away from me. Thanks to Mottlemoth and all of BLU DOC for inspiring me to write my first Mystrade.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta readers: spudqueen, ylc1, bookjunkiecat (and I think I'm leaving someone out, I'm so sorry)!

'You’ve got to be joking.'

'I’m really not. If you put up a fuss, I’ll make sure you don’t see the girls more than once a year. You know I can do it. The courts always rule in favour of the mum.'

'Let me get this straight: you want the house, _and_ the furniture, _and_ the Vauxhall, _and_ the savings.'

'And Billy.'

'You’re taking the dog?'

'The girls love him. He should be with them.'

Greg groaned and covered his face with one hand, the other clutching the phone. 

'You’re a real piece of work, Michelle.'

'Tell your lawyer to say yes and you’ll see the girls on one weekend a month.'

' _You_ cheated on _me_. For _years_. With a football team’s worth of punters.'

'Nonetheless.'

'Fine. You’ll hear from my lawyer.'

He rang off before she could, taking a smidgen of satisfaction from the tiny act of pettiness.

She’d frozen the bank accounts the week before. He’d been living on what he’d had in his wallet, buying pot noodles from the vending machine and scrounging old tins of beans from the pantry. Now he was losing the house. Where would he live?

'Greg, could I have a word?' His Superintendent was leaning on the doorjamb to his office.

'Of course, Crenshaw.' Greg gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Crenshaw closed the door.

'We’ve got a budget crisis.'

'Yeah, I did have some idea.' 

'We have to cut expenses, at least for this month until Parliament gets their heads out of their arses.'

'Right. No overtime?'

Crenshaw sighed.

'I’m afraid it’s worse than that.'

'I have to let someone go?'

'In a manner of speaking.' Crenshaw cleared his throat. Greg tried to appear as though he cared. Michelle’s betrayal was occupying most of his neurons. 

'We’re going to have to stand you down, for at least a month.'

'What now?'

'All the DCIs are being taken off payroll until this gets sorted.'

Greg stared at Crenshaw. 'Who’ll run the squad?'

'You’ll have to choose someone. Pick your best person. This is only temporary, Lestrade. No need for worry. And I’m positive you’ll get back pay when this is done and dusted.'

Greg blinked.

'I’m...off the payroll?'

'Yes. But surely you have savings for this sort of thing?'

Greg nodded vaguely. 

'Well. I have other people to break the news to. You’re off duty as of end of shift tonight.'

* * *

Mrs Hudson let Greg in the front door.

'Oh, how nice to see you, Detective Inspector! Sherlock and John are both in, go right on up.'

Greg climbed the stairs slowly. The door was open, so he wandered in. Sherlock looked him over with narrowed eyes from where he lay on the couch, wrapped in a particularly ratty red robe.

Sherlock sat up abruptly.

'Hey, Greg! Fancy some tea?' John offered.

'Thanks, but no. I just came to tell you--'

'You’ve been taken off cases,' Sherlock moaned. 'In fact, you’ve been banished from the department. This is terrible!' 

'Yes.' Greg didn’t even ask how Sherlock knew.

'Who am I going to work with now? Dimmock is an idiot!'

'Sherlock, maybe it’s terrible for Greg,' John chided.

Sherlock made a scoffing noise. 'Lestrade will be fine. But _I’m_ going to go insane from boredom.'

'Dimmock is off, too. All DCIs are,' Lestrade said faintly.

John rummaged in the kitchen cabinets while Greg sank down in John’s chair. 'Greg, that’s terrible. Sit down. I’ll get you something stronger.' 

'That’s John’s chair, don’t sit there.'

'He can sit wherever he wants, you tosser.' John handed Greg a glass with something brown in it. Greg drank it down in one gulp.

'Got the divorce terms today, too.'

John sat in Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock growled. He was ignored.

'Not too good, I take it?' John asked.

'Not too good. She’s taking everything; using the girls as a weapon.'

'God, I’m sorry.'

'Enough with that,' Sherlock demanded. 'What are we going to do about my cases?' 

'Right. I’ll be going, then.' Greg stood and walked briskly to the door, ignoring John’s protest. He could hear John yelling at Sherlock as he clattered down the stairs at twice the speed he’d come up them.

He was off his nut to have thought to get any sympathy from that quarter. At least now Sherlock wouldn’t be pestering him for cases and rubbing salt in his wounds with demanding text messages.

* * *

Greg was halfway to his house when he remembered that he didn’t live there any more. He changed direction and walked slowly towards the Yard. At least he could crash on the couch in his office.

But wait, no, he couldn’t do that. He didn’t have a job any more.

He sat down on a handy bench outside the wrought iron fence of a park. He was homeless and penniless, all in one afternoon. He had no friends to turn to; John had been his hope, but Sherlock had put paid to that notion handily. He thought of Sally, but she had just moved in with her new beau in a one-bedroom flat. He considered the other members of his team; each of them was unsuitable for couch-crashing for one reason or another.

He’d never slept rough before. It looked like he was going to get a lesson in what life was like for the people he saw brought in for petty crimes from living on the street.

A black car pulled up in front of him. 

'Get in, Detective Inspector,' Anthea called out when the driver opened the back door.

Greg glared at her.

'Don’t make me force you.'

Greg gave her a wan smile. 'As if you could.'

She gave Greg an even look back.

'Actually, I suppose you probably could, at that.' He slid onto the seat opposite her. She went back to her Blackberry. The driver closed the door and they took off smoothly into traffic.

* * *

'Ah, Greg. Thank you for coming.' Mycroft held out his hand and Greg shook it, feeling very confused. 'Do sit down.'

Greg sat down on the couch Mycroft indicated. Mycroft settled into an overstuffed crimson chair.

'Will you have some tea?' Mycroft offered.

'Um, sure…'

Mycroft poured from a delicate teapot, painted with coral azalea blossoms, into a matching teacup. The tea smelled rich and earthy. Greg took a hesitant sip.

'I’m so glad you’re going to be able to stay here,' Mycroft said. 'I’ve been so much looking forward to your company.'

Greg stared at Mycroft. 'What’s going on here, exactly?'

'You’re going to stay here in one of my guest rooms while you do some consulting work for my department.'

'I am, am I?'

'Indeed. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to work with you, and it seems that circumstances have, ah, made this possible for us.'

'‘Circumstances.’'

'Yes.' Mycroft gave him a level look. Greg couldn’t read it. What the fuck was this?

'Okay, so it sounds like Sherlock told you what happened?'

'Sherlock? Of course not, he doesn’t speak to me unless hot pokers are involved.'

'John, then?'

'I may have had a call from Dr Watson, yes.'

'Fuck.'

'Is there a problem?'

'Yes, there’s a goddamn problem! I don’t want John blabbing my personal business all over town.'

Mycroft frowned. 'He _didn’t_ “blab” it all over town, as you say. He made a discreet call to me, which, under the circumstances, was, I think, entirely necessary.'

Greg put down the teacup (gingerly) and stood up.

'Thanks for the tea. I’ll be going now.'

'Lestrade, _sit down_.'

Greg found himself sitting automatically.

'You are in rather dire straits. Your _wife_ , such as she is, has blocked off your access to money, just as the Yard made some ill-considered budgetary changes. She has also locked down your house. Did you know she’d changed the locks? No? Well, when she wants to be a bitch--'

Greg grinned a little at Mycroft using that word.

'--she evidently goes the full mile. You are without funds or shelter. I am in need of an assistant in a fairly crucial political mission. You have the exact set of skills that are required. Stay here, help me, and don’t be a fool about this.'

Greg sat for a few minutes, looking at the floor, thinking. He took a deep breath, picked up the tea cup, and took another sip.

'I suppose this is the best offer I’ve had all year. I accept.'

Mycroft smiled--a real smile, not the smirks Greg had seen when he bantered with Sherlock--and poured himself a cup of tea.

* * *

Greg stretched and opened his eyes. He immediately noticed that there were at least two things wrong.

One, he was well-rested. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in...well, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this relaxed.

Two, the light was all wrong. Had he overslept? 

Also: his bed was much, much more comfortable than it had ever been.

Oh, right. Mycroft’s house. 

He looked around. The queen-sized bed he was in had silk-soft sheets (but made of cotton, which he was glad of. Silk was slippery and sweaty). He was covered in a puffy, downy, pinkish grey comforter. Light was pouring through tall windows where he hadn’t thought to shut the shades. The walls were painted a soft dove-grey and the furniture was highly polished mahogany. 

The honeymoon hotel he and Michelle had stayed at hadn’t been half this nice.

Then he smelled the bacon and coffee. He hopped out of bed, pulled on yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt, and ambled towards the kitchen.

'Good morning, Mr Lestrade.'

Greg hid a twitch. There was an older man in an apron in Mycroft’s kitchen.

'Mr. Holmes had to go to the office, but he said to tell you he’d be back around 1. May I make you some breakfast?'

'Uh…'

'I can make you anything you like. Coffee? Maybe a full English?'

'Coffee, yes, please. And….sorry, but do you have porridge?'

'Of course, sir.'

Greg was pleased that the cook didn’t argue with him. He sat down at a small table in the middle of the large kitchen and tucked a napkin into his shirt collar. Oh. Maybe that wasn’t the done thing? Well, hell with it. He’d spilled enough things on himself to not care.

After a lovely, simple breakfast--with real maple syrup, imported from Quebec!--Greg stood up and looked around. What was he going to do with himself?

'Mr Lestrade--'

'Greg, please.'

'Of course, Greg. Mr Holmes suggested that you might want to take a shower. You’ll find a change of clothes in your room.'

'Thanks, uh…'

'Arnold, sir.'

'Arnold. Of course. Great breakfast, thanks.'

In his room, Greg found more than a 'change of clothes'. The closet was filled with shirts, t-shirts, and several suits, all in his exact size. In the drawers he found new pants, vests, jeans, and socks. When had Mycroft had time to pull all this together? Did he expect Greg to move in?

Huh, maybe he did. 

Greg took some clothes into the en suite and undressed. He stood ogling the shower for a few minutes. There were six showerheads: 1 above, and 5 on the walls.

What the fuck, Mycroft.

Unexpectedly, the instructions were clear, and he stepped into a virtual rainstorm at a perfect level of heat. A dispenser on the wall was neatly labeled as to its shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, and...shower oil? He’d never heard of the brands, but the gel smelled amazing.

After a quick cleaning, he just stood there for a few minutes, experiencing the novelty of jets of water surrounding him.

It was very sensual.

His cock thought so, too. 

It had been a long time since he’d felt arousal. Months of stress had taken their toll on his libido. He’d figured it was an age thing; he’d stopped worrying about it after a while. There was too much else to worry about, anyway.

But suddenly, as the hot water beat the knots out of his muscles, and the subtle scents of the bath products lulled him, he found his cock rising.

Maybe that’s what 'shower oil' was for. He made good use of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can Greg help Mycroft? An excellent question! Let's find out.

'Ah, Lestrade.'

'Good grief, Mycroft. Call me Greg. I--' _jacked off in your insanely gorgeous shower this morning!_ '--used your chef this morning, and I’m wearing your briefs.' Oops. That didn’t come out right. Greg coughed.

Mycroft let out a tiny smile. 'As you wish, Gregory. As I was going to say, I need you to be packed and ready to travel in an hour, please.'

'Where are we going?'

‘Reykjavík.'

'Iceland?'

'Quite.'

'I don’t have my passport.'

'You’ll find that in the top drawer of your bureau.'

'How do you do these things?'

'Mostly it’s Anthea who does them.'

'Not really an answer.'

'No, it wasn’t, was it.' Mycroft smiled more widely this time, his smug secretive smile that drove Sherlock crazy. Greg wasn’t so fond of it either.

'Iceland, huh. Pretty cold this time of year.'

'Fairly chilly any time of year, yes. But you should have sufficient jumpers, and there’s an overcoat in the wardrobe out here.'

'You’re...kind of amazing.'

'Really? That’s not what people usually say.'

'What do they usually say?' 

'Piss off.'

'Aw, poor Mycroft!' Greg laughed as Mycroft winced.

* * *

'Mycroft, I thought you’d have your own plane.'

They were the only two people in a quiet room. The windows were darkened and the inside lighting was dim. Greg had just heaped a tiny china plate with delicacies from a buffet. He plopped down next to Mycroft on a sofa. Mycroft eyed his plate with amusement, then alarm as some caviar fell off a tower of fruit.

'Oops.' Greg scooped it off his jeans with a finger and sucked it off. 'Oh, eugh!' 

'Problem?'

'This tastes like bad fish!'

'They are fish eggs, Gregory.'

'I know, but...they’re supposed to be so great!'

'Perhaps if you hadn’t mixed them with the cantaloupe.'

'Ew ew ew!' Greg scraped the caviar off with the same finger onto a paper napkin and set it on a side table. Mycroft looked the other way.

'So, anyway. No private plane for Mycroft?'

'I find that this service is perfectly acceptable, and it saves the Government a few pounds.'

'But you could afford a plane if you wanted.'

'Indeed. But when it’s government business, it’s best if I follow procedure.'

Greg gave him a skeptical look. He thought Mycroft could follow any procedure he wanted.

Mycroft sighed.

'Okay, Mummy’s cousin owns Jet Hire Direct. Every time I use them, they get a bump in sales, because whatever Mycroft Holmes does must be right and good for everyone.'

'Ha! Thought there was something fishy. Heh, fishy.'

Greg licked watermelon juice off his lips and missed Mycroft’s sharp look.

'Gentlemen, if you are ready? We’ve gotten clearance.'

'Yes, thank you.' Mycroft stood and held out a hand to help Greg up. Greg took it but raised an eyebrow.

'Apologies for the delay.'

'Not at all.'

'What about our luggage?' Greg asked.

'Already on board, sir. If you’ll come this way?'

The small plane had huge, comfy seats, a couch, and in the back, a bed on either side. Greg goggled. There was an honest-to-god long-stem red rose in a crystal vase on a carved wood table between two of the seats.

'If you could put on your belts for take-off, please, we’ll get started. What would you like to drink?'

'Vodka straight,' Mycroft ordered, settling into the backward facing chair.

'Kors?'

'Please.'

'And for you, Mr Lestrade?'

_He knows my name?_ Greg mouthed at Mycroft, who smiled.

'Uh, just an ale, thanks. Do you have Guinness?'

'Of course, sir.'

Greg bounced around in his seat a little before putting on his belt.

'You can say it, you know,' Mycroft said.

'What?'

'You don’t have to pretend you’re not impressed.'

Greg thought about being offended, then decided that was silly.

' _Oh my God, Mycroft!_ What the hell! I’ve never sat on a chair this comfortable in my _life_! And it’s on a _plane_!'

The steward handed him a pint glass, perfectly topped off.

'What’s that you’ve got, there,' Greg asked.

Mycroft was sipping a clear liquid.

'Kors, one of the nicer vodkas.'

'May I?'

Mycroft looked at Greg a bit aghast, then handed over the glass. It was cut crystal and chilled. Greg sipped. The liquid had almost no flavour--maybe a hint of vanilla. When he swallowed there was no burn.

A moment later it hit him.

'Wow, that has quite a kick!'

'It should, at 24 thousand pounds a bottle.'

Greg choked.

'Don’t worry, we’re not paying for it. It’s part of the service.'

Greg took a gulp of his Guinness. 'I’ll stick to this, thanks. Doesn’t make me feel like I’m drinking liquid gold or something.'

'Kors vodka is actually distilled through gold tubes.'

'Of course it is.'

'Prepare for takeoff,' a woman’s voice sounded over the loudspeakers. And moments later, they were airborne. 

'I could barely feel that.'

'Yes, that was one of the better takeoffs,' Mycroft agreed.

'May we serve you gentlemen dinner?'

'Yes, thank you,' Mycroft said. 'I hope you don’t mind, Gregory. I took the liberty of ordering catering when I booked the flight.'

'Oh, no, I’m sure it’s fine. Peanuts would be all right for me.'

'I hope this will be a bit more satisfying than _peanuts_.'

The steward first set the table between them with lavender-coloured napkins, elegant flatware, and china with what looked like gold leaf decorating it. He proceeded to serve them bowls of a thick, rich soup that tasted of pumpkin. The next course had oysters in it--Greg was glad he’d already learned how to eat oysters as a young man--and the last course was a hearty roast beef, served with horseradish on the side, accompanied by a baked sweet potato and a mixture of fresh, crisp vegetables.

'Is it to your liking?'

'Are you kidding?' Greg wiped his mouth, then felt a little strange about mussing up the fancy napkin. 'This is amazing.'

'I’m so glad. I find that good food makes a flight pass more quickly.'

'Excuse me, where’s the loo?' Greg asked the attendant, who was clearing their table.

'Back of the cabin.'

Greg closed the door and found himself in a full-size bathroom. There was--for fuck’s sake--a _shower_. The toilet was some new-fangled contraption with multiple buttons. There was a _bidet_. The room had a faint floral scent. 

'I think I’d like to live here,' Greg said when he returned. The table had been cleared. 

'Shall we move to a more comfortable area?'

'More comfortable than _this_?'

'The sofa is rather nice.'

And Greg had to agree, the sofa was even nicer than the ultra-luxurious seats.

He looked over at Mycroft. They hadn’t really had to talk, so far. Things had been moving fairly quickly. But now, as the clouds moved past the windows in brilliant white billows, he realized he had to say something. _Anything_.

Mycroft gave him a faint smile.

'I believe now is one of those times when one wishes one still smoked,' he said.

Greg laughed.

'Yeah, that’s about right.'

'You have questions?'

'Damn right I have questions. I’m just afraid to ask them. If I ask them, this beautiful fairy tale might just blow up and I’ll find myself falling out of the sky at 30 thousand.'

'Nothing of the kind. Ask away.'

'How did you find out about my...about what happened?'

'Dr Watson called. A quick inquiry at The Yard confirmed it. By the way, I’ve fired your lawyer. You’ll be represented by someone at the firm I use. She’s making arrangements now.'

'For...what?'

'Custody of the girls, if you wish, and half of the value of your property, at the very least. Given your ex-wife’s behaviour, I suspect we’ll get much more. Oh, and your bank assets are unfrozen, and... _Michelle_...no longer has access.'

Greg blinked at Mycroft, who sighed.

'I understand that that may have been overstepping a bit. I hope you won’t hold it against me.'

'Hold it against you? You saved my life! I was going to sleep on the street! 24 hours later, I’m in a gorgeous jet, full of gourmet grub, on my way to feckin _Iceland_. I’m not about to complain, Mycroft.'

He saw some tension ease out of Mycroft’s shoulders and realized that Mycroft had been braced for an argument, or worse.

'You’re a hero, is what you are,’ Greg said. ‘I don’t have any way to thank you.'

'You just did,' Mycroft said softly. 'Also,' he added in a normal tone of voice, 'you really will be helping me on this trip. I was able to pull together the participants for a long-delayed, very delicate negotiation. One thing that had been missing was a, er, compatriot to accompany me.'

'You needed a wife?'

Mycroft grimaced. 'As it were. In addition, you have some people-skills that I am sadly lacking. I am one of the top three negotiators in the world--'

Greg smiled. This was a refreshing change of pace from the false humility of a “minor position in the British government.”

'--yet there are some social niceties that yet escape me. I am precise, implacable, and wily. But I am not...warm.'

'And _I’m_ warm?'

'Indeed you are. You have a deft way of making people of all walks of life feel comfortable and comforted. Your assistance cannot be underestimated. In fact...I’ve been putting this event on hold in hopes of someday bringing you on board. I admit I took this opportunity to coerce you.'

'Well, what is it we’re doing, then?'

Mycroft went on to describe a very confusing multi-part deal that had something to do with Japan’s illegal whaling, the vanishing sea ice opening the elusive Northwest Passage, electronics production in South Korean, and Brexit. Greg started laughing after the sixth competing element had been described.

'Why are you laughing? Canadian donuts aren’t particularly funny, are they?'

'No...it’s just that this whole scheme is really improbably, isn’t it?'

'Not really?' Mycroft looked bewildered.

'You regularly manage these kinds of, I dunno, interlocking meetings?'

'Well, yes?'

'More power to you, my friend. There’s no way I’ll follow all this; I’ll just have to trust you.'

'I’d expect no less.'

'So, let’s see. You need me to tag along and look pretty.'

Mycroft coughed. Greg grinned his most charming, thousand-watt grin.

'I was hoping for rather more than that, tho I will admit that you have a pleasing rakish appearance, Lestrade.'

'Oh no, we’re not back to Lestrade. I like “Gregory.”'

_'Gregory_.'

My gosh, was Mycroft _blushing_?

'I need you to,’ Mycroft coughed again, discreetly. ‘Well...I hope this doesn’t sound demeaning. But I need you to entertain the other spouses.'

'All of ‘em married, then?'

'Spouses and _partners_. All participants insisted on bringing someone along. Trips to Iceland are rare, and the Government is footing the bill.'

'We are? Why the fuck are we doing that?'

Mycroft didn’t react to the curse. Good thing; Greg wasn’t going to change his language for anyone.

'As I was explaining, Britain needs this to happen because--'

'Wait, no, stop. Never mind. If you say we need it, then we need it. So you just need me to play pretty boy for the wives?'

'And husbands. Or consorts. _But_. This is where your expertise comes in. Often the people who are the key players listen more to their partners than to someone like me. You will be doing your own negotiating; only you will be doing it with the powers behind the thrones.'

'How am I going to do that? You lost me after “Japanese continue to whale in the face of all international law.”'

'The details of the deal are not necessary. Your role is to show these people that I am trustworthy. If they like you, then they’ll tell their partners to trust _me_.'

Greg stared at Mycroft.

'That is the lamest, most bullshit plan I’ve ever heard.'

'Nevertheless, it has succeeded in many tricky deals throughout history. Did you know that Eleanor Roosevelt seduced Churchill’s mistress, which led to Churchill agreeing to the atomic bomb?'

'What?'

'Not often taught in classrooms, I’ll admit.'

Greg laughed, not sure whether to believe Mycroft or not. Mycroft looked deadly serious.

'Right. So, I’m to make nice with these, um, _partners_ , and if they like me, you get your deal.'

'Something like that.'

'Well, hey. You’ve basically sorted my life; this is the least I can do for you. It’s not going to work, but I’m happy to try.'

Mycroft smiled. There was relief in it.

'Seatbelts on for landing, please,' the steward said, and withdrew to the galley.

* * *

When the porter held open the door and Greg walked in, he literally gasped. Well, what the hell; Mycroft said he didn’t have to play it cool and pretend he wasn’t impressed. 

And he was. Impressed. So. Fucking. Impressed.

He was walking into an enormous apartment with a magnificent view of the city of Reykjavík and the surrounding mountains through a giant window. The decor was modern and minimalist, blacks and woods creating a calming environment. To the left was a full kitchen; to the right, a dining room. He could see doors leading to other rooms.

'Mycroft,' he said. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'I…'

'That good, is it?'

Greg chuckled.

'This is, of course, our Panoramic Suite, gentlemen,’ the porter said. ‘Would you like me to unpack?'

'Thank you, that would be appreciated. When will our butler be here?' Mycroft asked.

'I’m so sorry she wasn’t here to greet you. I understand she will be here momentarily.'

Mycroft looked unimpressed. The porter took Greg’s bags through one door, returned and took Mycroft’s through another.

'And the chef?' Mycroft called.

The porter came back in. 'He’s being flown in. There was some weather at De Gaulle, I’m afraid. He should be here in plenty of time for dinner.'

'I hope so. I need to discuss this week’s menus with him.'

'Of course, sir.' The porter stood in the living area, looking uncertain.

'Well go on, unpack us then.'

Greg plopped down in a leather chair.

'This is hard to get used to.'

'Not at all,' Mycroft called from where he was rummaging under a counter in the kitchen. 'You’ll find you can acclimate quite quickly. Ale? Juice? Something harder?'

'Juice would be nice, actually. What do they have?' Greg hopped back up and came around the counter.

'The usual...orange, grape, lemonade…'

'No fancy Icelandic berry juice?'

'Iceland does have bilberries, but I’m afraid we don’t have any bilberry juice here.'

'Damn. I’ll have a lemonade, then.'

'Would you like me to demonstrate the showers and sauna?' the porter asked, standing rather nervously in the entryway.

'Thank you, no, I’ve been here before,' Mycroft responded.

'Oh, of course you have, Mr Holmes. I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything else?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg.

'Not at all. You’ll find your gratuity on the bill.'

'Thank you very much.' The porter left.

Mycroft sighed. ' _So_ tedious when they force you to discuss money.'

'Such a gauche topic, then?'

'Well...yes, actually.'

'Not so gauche to the working classes.'

'No, I’m not an imbecile. But at this level of service, it’s known that gratuities will be settled at the end. One does not simply _rummage_ in one’s pocket for a few króna.'

'Why not?'

Mycroft glanced at Greg as he poured chilled lemonade into a glass. 'You know...I’m not quite sure how to explain it.'

'It’s because when you have as much money as, well, you do, you like to pretend that money doesn’t exist.'

Mycroft scoffed. 'That’s ridiculous.'

'It’s really not. I’ve dealt with people like--well, people who have a lot of money. They all have this attitude, like money is a bad smell. Like mentioning it, looking at it, even thinking about it will make it suddenly real and will make it suddenly vanish.'

'Is that what you really think of me?' Mycroft was pouring himself a whiskey.

'Honestly? I don’t know quite what to think. This has all been way out of my experience. Out of my pay grade, as it were.' Greg went to look out the window. He sipped his lemonade. It was quite good--just the right combination of tart and sweet. Of course it was.

'Have I insulted you in some way?' Mycroft asked.

'Me? No. But I think you insulted that porter. He was just doing his job. Maybe he’s never worked the--what is this again? The Panama suite?'

'The Panoramic Suite.'

'Right. Maybe he’s just an ordinary Joe who usually brings up a couple of knapsacks and a diaper bag for a young family, and the fellow who usually works this level called in sick. Maybe the regular guy’s got the flu. Maybe he’s out of sick days, and he begged Joe to fill in, begged him not to tell management or else he’d get canned. So Joe says sure, because Bill’s helped him out before. How hard can it be? Bill’s talked about having to unpack for rich toffs who can’t put their own underwear in a drawer, so he knew to do that. But those young families, the father always slips him a pound or two, gives him a kind word while their baby screams and the mother looks for the minibar. So no, Joe didn’t know that he wasn’t to expect a tip. Maybe he thought you forgot, in all the confusion about the missing butler and the missing chef.'

Greg turned around. Mycroft was beet red, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, whiskey forgotten.

'That’s quite an imagination you have, Lestrade.'

'Shit, Mycroft. I’m sorry. I _am_ sorry. Here you are, being wonderful to me, taking care of me and showing me things I’ve never dreamt of. And I just shit all over your world. Don’t listen to me; I don’t know what I’m talking about. I really don’t. I’m like...well, I’m like poor old Joe. I don’t know the rules. Teach me the rules.'

'I’m feeling rather fatigued. I think I’m going to lie down for a while. Do let the butler know I’ll speak with her later.'

'Oh, shit, c’mon, Mycroft, don’t be like that--'

Greg found he was talking to a closed door.

He sighed heavily and set his glass down on the dining room table. Then he looked around for a coaster. That would be just his luck, to ruin a 20 thousand pound table.

He went through the other open door and found his own bedroom. There was an enormous bed facing another spectacular view and, oddly, a bathtub. Behind a partition was the rest of the bathroom. It featured a shower that was not quite as amazing as the one at Mycroft’s house, but he supposed he’d make do.

He heard a subtle chime and looked around. It chimed again, and it was coming from the other room. When he went out, he heard a gentle knocking on the room door. 

'Hello?' He opened the door to find a tall blond woman.

'Mr Holmes?'

'No, it’s Mister--I mean, it’s Greg. Can I help you?'

'I’m your butler. I’m so _very_ sorry for not being here to greet you.'

'Oh, no problem at all. Come in, come in! Mycroft is, er, taking a short nap.'

The butler was wearing a black suit. It was tailored, and she wore a pale pink silk blouse underneath which gave the severe outfit a touch of the feminine. 

'My name is Cregg. I’m pleased to meet you, Greg. I’ll be your round-the-clock butler for any needs you may have.'

'Uh, thanks?' He shook her hand. She had a strong, confident handshake. 'I’m not sure that we’ll be needing anything?'

She smiled. 'Perhaps not. But I do hope I can be of service. They told me your chef is delayed. Do you know what you’ll want for dinner, so I can start assembling the ingredients?'

'Oh, I, uh, I have no idea. Mycroft probably has some plan. Can we call you when he’s up?'

'Of course. There’s a button here--' she pointed to the wall next to the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator. '--and here are two pagers, one for each of you.' She handed him little boxes. 'Call me any time, day or night. _Any_ time, Greg. I am here to help.'

'Well, thanks.'

'New to this, are you?'

'It’s that obvious?'

'A bit. Don’t worry, there’s no etiquette here, no way to put your foot wrong. I understand you’ll be hosting a gathering? Anything I can do to help, you just let me know.'

'Yeah, uh, we’re expecting some, uh, folks from various countries.'

'Some of them have already checked in. Will you be having them here for dinner?'

'Cregg? I have no fucking idea.'

She laughed warmly. 'Then we’ll wait until Mr Holmes is here to guide us. There’s plenty of time to pull together a full formal dinner for your group, or to set up a quiet meal for just the two of you. Or if he was planning to host them in a local restaurant, we can put that together for you. You’ll see; it’ll all come together.'

Greg rolled his shoulders. She really had an aura of calm competence. He had a feeling he was going to need to lean on her for help through this confusing new world.

'I’ll be just down the hall. Unless there’s something else I can help you with?'

'No, I’m good.'

'Then I’ll see you later, Greg.' And she was gone.

What had Mycroft gotten him into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The butler is based on CJ Cregg from _The West Wing_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The all-important first formal dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to ylc1 and savvyblunders for their beta work and for _super-fast_ re-reading this chapter within mere hours of being asked to! Also thanks to the Mystrade group "BLU DOC" for their encouragement!

A half-hour after the butler left, Greg was flipping through channels on the enormous television when Mycroft emerged from his bedroom.

'I’m so sorry, Lestrade. Thank you for your patience. I’m afraid I had a bit of jet lag.'

'Come off it, Mycroft. I was rude as hell to you, and I really am sorry. This is all so foreign to me. Ha, foreign, in Iceland? No? Nothing? Okay. I take it all back, and I am incredibly grateful to you for putting me up and for putting up with me.'

'Not at all, Lestrade. Think nothing of it.'

'Really? We’re back to Lestrade?'

Mycroft stalked over to the kitchen and retrieved a Diet Coke from the refrigerator. He turned around to find Greg right behind him.

'Mycroft,' he said softly. 'What can I do to make it up to you?'

Mycroft stepped aside, putting space between them.

'Nothing, really, Gregory. This is one of my hot buttons. We’ve had many arguments in our family about the morality of money. You can imagine where Sherlock falls on that spectrum.'

'He thinks it’s awful and pretentious, and goes ahead and spends your money anyway.'

Mycroft barked out a laugh.

'That’s it exactly.'

Greg grinned. 'Well, far be it from me to emulate Sherlock. Could we start over? I’ll live in your world for a while, and you’ll teach me how it works.'

Greg grabbed a Coke, and they moved to the sofa.

'Oh, by the way, our butler stopped by. Her name is ‘Cregg.’ No first or last name, I guess.'

'That’s how it’s done.' Mycroft smiled.

'She wanted to know if she should order in any groceries for the...uh...chef.' Greg grimaced. 'I’m sorry. You’ll have to give me a little time. A butler? And a personal chef?'

'For what this room is costing, that’s the least they can offer.'

Greg choked on his Coke.

'Gregory. The financial rewards of this deal, if it goes through--not to mention the social impact on many people’s lives--more than makes up for the cost of this room. It is important that the people we are wooing see us as having infinite means. It is important that they are very, very impressed with our power. This room is not a whim of mine; it is not a luxury that I find to be my due as some sort of royalty. There is a purpose to this.'

Greg nodded.

'Now, if we enjoy the fuck out of the amenities in the process, who is to blame us?' Mycroft said.

Greg spat out his Coke. 'I’ve never heard you swear. I didn’t know you _knew_ how to swear.'

Mycroft looked very pleased with himself. 'Now. Down to business. This is one of the ways in which you can help me. I know exactly what to say, and what buttons to press, when we have these people at dinner. But I do not know whether it would be more of an advantage to have them here in our room, showing them immediately our wealth and subsequent blasé attitude, or instead to reserve a room in one of Reykjavík’s finest restaurants and start on neutral territory.'

'Okay. Here’s the thing. This chef isn’t even here yet, and we haven’t tried him--or her--er, or _them_ out yet, so we have no idea if they suck.'

Mycroft winced ever so slightly at “suck”.

'So it would be a really bad move to invite everyone here and then serve them a shit dinner,’ Greg concluded.

'And you were shocked when I said ‘fuck.’'

'Well, yeah. That’s you. You _know_ me.'

'I’m starting to. And that makes eminent sense. Thank you.'

Greg grinned, pleased.

'Where is our butler button?' Mycroft asked.

'Hee. “Butler button.”’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'Alliteration. Anyway, here.' He grabbed one from the counter and tossed it at Mycroft, who caught it handily.

Within seconds there was a knock at the door.

'Enter,' Mycroft called out.

'Gentlemen? How may I assist?'

'We need to reserve a restaurant for 11 people tonight.'

'Of course. Did you have anywhere in mind?'

'Dill.'

'Indeed.'

Greg noticed Cregg blanching, just slightly. He suspected someone who was not a detective wouldn’t have noticed it.

Mycroft, of course, did notice it as well. 'Will that be a problem?'

'It will be an opportunity, sir.' 

Greg snorted.

'I realize this is short notice,’ Mycroft went on. ‘I suspect if we offer enough compensation, they should be able to reschedule their reservations.'

Cregg swallowed visibly.

'By compensation, I am not only speaking of money. I can get Michelin to re-evaluate them. I suspect a second star would be in the offing.'

Cregg smiled. It was a little shark-like. 'I do so enjoy clients who help me do my job. Do you have any information on food allergies or preferences?' 

'Of course. May I send it to you electronically?'

'Please.'

Mycroft handed her his phone, and she entered her number.

'I’ll need about a half an hour,’ she said, ‘but you may tell your guests that it is settled.'

'Thank you, Cregg. Oh, and I’ll get you a list of foodstuffs we’ll need for our chef. _If he ever gets here_ ,' Mycroft added darkly.

'Indeed. I’m tracking his arrival. The hotel is well aware of the problem and is prepared to compensate you.'

'Thank you.'

'If you’ll excuse me.'

'Of course.'

After she closed the door, Greg stared at Mycroft.

'What just happened?'

'Dill is the only restaurant with a Michelin star in Reykjavík. You do know what a Michelin star is?'

Greg nodded.

'It barely seats the size of our party,’ Mycroft continued, ‘and is reserved several years in advance.'

'Do you really have the clout to get them another Michelin star?'

'Well, the food quality will be up to them, but yes, someone owes me a favour.'

'Who doesn’t,' Greg mumbled under his breath.

Mycroft smiled sweetly.

* * *

Greg collapsed on the sofa. The view out the window was beautiful--twinkling lights throughout the city and the mountains dark against the darker sky, covered in far-away clouds that didn’t reflect the too-weak Reykjavík lights.

'I am very glad that’s over,' Greg sighed.

'It _was_ a bit awkward, wasn’t it.'

'Did you see Mr Handsy?'

'What?'

'Mr Handsy, the English guy’s boyfriend. He was all over me.'

' _What?_ Why didn’t you say something?'

'What was I going to say? “Mycroft, stop this delicate negotiation and get this guy off me?”’

'Gregory, I’m so sorry.'

'It’s ok. I elbowed him in the side right after his boyfriend gave him a glare. He kept to himself after that.'

'My intelligence was...lacking. There will be words when we get back.'

'Oh, you mean about the shellfish thing?'

'Thank god she didn’t taste it. But just the smell, driving her to the powder room…'

'Michelin star my sweet white ass.'

Mycroft snorted. 'Yes, I shan’t be sending Michelin there any time soon. Or ever.'

'I really did like the fish.'

'Which fish?'

'Uh, all of the fish? You’re right, even the dessert had fish. That was a bit much.'

Mycroft got up and rummaged in the refrigerator. 'May I offer you some consolation cheesecake?'

'Gimme, gimme.'

There was a knock on the door.

'Come,' Mycroft called.

'Gentlemen.' Cregg looked distressed. 'I am so very sorry about your dinner. You can be assured the price is comped.'

'That doesn’t fix the damage done to my mission,' Mycroft said in a low voice.

'I’m well aware. The hotel is also comping everyone’s room for tonight and has sent an apology basket to the woman with the shellfish allergy.'

'Let’s hope it isn’t a basket of crabs,' Greg snarked.

'Indeed, it’s not. In fact it is a collection of the finest toiletries we have available--half are scent-free, just in case--as well as some flowers--which we’ll remove if she has allergies to them as well. Please, let me know if there is anything I can do to make up for what happened tonight.'

Mycroft sighed. 'It’s not your fault, Cregg. I’ve had perfectly lovely meals at Dill before. I have no idea what tonight’s fiasco was. It’s up to me to try to bring these people back to the table. But if we need anything from you, we’ll let you know.'

'Please allow me to remind you that I am on call both day and night.'

Greg started, 'Thanks, that’s not really necessary--' 

'Thank you, we will bear that in mind,' Mycroft cut Greg off.

Cregg left, her back straight but somehow conveying apology.

Mycroft looked at Greg as he sat on the sofa. 'What do you suggest now?'

'Well, let me ask you this. It wasn’t a great dinner, for sure. But why are we acting like it’s the end of the world? Everyone has a lousy dinner now and then. And that poor allergic woman wasn’t actually poisoned.'

'It’s not the dinner so much as how it gives the impression that I am completely out of control and unable to provide even the most basic of amenities to people who are looking to me to put together an incredibly complicated and subtle multi-way deal.'

'Oh, please. So the kitchen fucked up. It was just one meal.'

'It was the _first_ meal.'

'I think you’re overreacting.'

Mycroft glared. 'Who has more experience with this?'

'Who was brought along for his social intelligence?'

Mycroft scrubbed his hands through his hair, then looked appalled and tried to pat it back down.

'Look, dinner is done,’ Greg said. ‘Let’s talk about what comes next.’

'Tomorrow we have meetings at a local conference centre. The spouses--partners--er, whatever--will be at loose ends. Let’s come up with something you can do with them to distract them.'

'Do you need any help planning what you’re going to talk about?'

'No, Gregory. _That_ is _my_ forte. We need to sort out what _you_ will be doing.'

Greg worked on not being offended. Mycroft was right, of course.

'May I borrow your laptop?' Greg asked.

'Yes, let me get it.'

When Mycroft came back in, instead of handing the computer to Greg, he settled at the desk and typed. For a long time.

'Mycroft?'

'A moment, please. This is a work computer and I have to create a safe space for you.'

'A safe space for _me_? More like a space where I can’t fuck anything up?'

'As you say.'

After a while, he gestured Greg over. A screen was open that said “Gregory” in the top right corner.

'You have your own account now,’ Mycroft said.

'Okay, shoo. Let me do a bit of research.'

Mycroft got some whiskey and settled back on the couch, staring out the window. He nearly spilled it, jumping, when loud music boomed into the room.

'Wups, sorry about that, didn’t check the volume.'

'What... _is_ that?'

'Oh, just some Sex Pistols. Helps me clear my thinking.'

'Does it now.'

Greg turned the volume to its lowest setting. 'I am the anti-Christ!' was still fairly audible.

'Okay, how about whale watching?' Greg suggested.

'Sea sickness.'

‘Don’t we have medicine for that now?'

'Possibly,' Mycroft allowed.

'Bus tours...ew, no. Golf? Maybe, but I’m awful at golf. But maybe that’s a good thing. Museums…Ah ha!'

'Yes?'

'The Volcano House!'

'There’s no way that could go wrong.'

'Seriously, Mycroft, it’s unusual!'

'And potentially dangerous!'

'It will give us a lot to talk about!'

'This is a terrible idea.'

'Look, am I in charge of the wives, or aren’t I?'

‘“Wives” is a very gendered term.'

'Yes, it is. I’m sick of saying spouses-partners-whathaveyous. I’m an ersatz wife, I’m going to call them wives. Am I in charge?'

Mycroft sighed, and Greg considered that a win.

Greg buzzed Cregg.

'Yes?' She looked as fresh as if she had gotten up a half-hour before, had a shower and plenty of coffee, and dressed in her crispest suit. How did she do that?

'Cregg, I need to let the, er, partners of the main people-types know what we’re doing tomorrow. Can you help me?'

'Of course. Tell me all the details.'

* * *

That night, Greg laid awake in his beautiful bed, with the curtains open to the beautiful view. He thought about how strange things were. It was as though someone had reached down, plucked him under his arms, and plopped him straight from his life into a book. A glamorous book, to be sure, but utter fiction that no one would believe.

He could tell he wasn’t going to be able to sleep any time soon, so he started pondering the people he was meant to charm the next day. There was Allergy Lady--Judy--who had been fairly reasonable about the food mix-up. She seemed a sturdy sort, clearly used to the dangers inherent in eating out while traveling. There was Handsy McFuckerton, who was getting a kick in the balls the next time he tried something, important boyfriend or no. There was an elderly Japanese lady. She could be a problem. She seemed very frail and hadn’t spoken at all--Greg wasn’t sure if she knew English, and he certainly didn’t know Japanese. He wondered if Cregg spoke Japanese? Maybe Cregg could find him a translator.

Okay, so he needed to keep an eye on accessibility and language. Then there was Jonesy, the Canadian spouse. He had practically clung to his female companion all night and seemed very timid. Greg would probably need to keep an eye on making him comfortable and safe.

Finishing out the little group was their Icelandic guide, Reynar. He was a big, hearty, bearded guy--loud, enthusiastic, and altogether manly. He was meant to show them around and help with any native language problems, which was unlikely, as all Icelanders seemed to know English. 

Greg thought about the dinner that night. All of the conversation had been in English (except for the Japanese woman, who hadn’t spoken at all). But what had they all been talking about? The room--even with just their party--had been rather loud with conversation, and he’d been trying to make small talk with Handsy on one side and Allergy Lady on the other. He’d overheard something about whaling, and nanotech, and--could it have been The Northwest Passage? Whatever Mycroft was up to, Greg was glad his role was just to entertain bored spouses until the whole thing was over.

Argh. His brain was too busy with plans, on top of the shock of Michelle’s betrayal (the latest in such a long series) and losing his house and job and suddenly being in Iceland. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep. He got up, put on the cashmere hotel robe hanging in his closet, and wandered into the living area.

He was startled to find Mycroft sitting on the couch, staring out at the lights of the city. The clouds had cleared, and stars glittered above the mountains.

“Can’t sleep either,” Mycroft stated without looking around. Greg could see he was wearing what looked like very soft flannel pajamas in a startling deep red. It was funny to find Mycroft out of his usual three-piece suit with watch chain and polished shoes. Greg came around the sofa and saw that Mycroft’s legs were stretched out--with matching red slippers on his feet. 

‘Worrying about tomorrow?’ Greg asked softly.

‘Among other things. Can I get you a hot cocoa?’

‘You know that has caffeine in it.’

Mycroft levelled a look at Greg. ‘Are you planning to sleep soon?’

‘I’d like to...but yeah, hot cocoa sounds lovely. I’ll get it myself.’

They sat together quietly in the living room, watching the city through the night and thinking private thoughts. As the dawn painted the sky in pinks and blues, Greg wondered if he had what it would take to get through the day. He wanted so very much to help Mycroft with his mysterious mission.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg plays tourist with the crowd! But can he avoid Simon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to ylc1 and savvyblunders, my tireless betas, and Elaine27, from BLU DOC, who has provided me with brilliant _actual pictures_ of Iceland to try to make this a bit more realistic.
> 
> Please note that all geological stuff is off the top of my head. Do not take this as a class in climate change. Also, I have never been to Volcano House, and I have never flown in a helicopter, so again, all proctological extraction.
> 
> More serious trigger warning for sexual harassment in this chapter. If that bothers you, you might skip this one.
> 
> Fun notes: [here's the sunrise/sunset chart for Iceland](https://www.timeanddate.com/sun/iceland/reykjavik?month=1)
> 
> [Here's the page for the Volcano House](http://www.volcanohouse.is/), which is a real thing!

When Greg’s wristwatch alarm went off at 7 am, he rubbed his face and looked over at Mycroft. Somehow in the last hour or so, Mycroft had fallen asleep. Greg scrambled to turn off his watch. Sunrise wasn’t for another 3 hours, but they had two activities planned for the day, and Greg had said he would meet the “wives” for breakfast in the hotel dining room at 8 that morning.

Reykjavík was laid out before him, lights coming back on as the city woke up.

Greg walked as quietly as he could back to his bedroom and shut the door. He took a shower--again, not nearly as good as Mycroft’s, but the shampoo and soap were nice, and he scrubbed the night of wakefulness off with a soft gray cloth. After he shaved, he dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, a silky brown button-up that matched his eyes, and a thick Scotland wool jumper. He found sturdy black leather boots and slid them on over thick wool socks. In the helpful hotel packet, when he was bored last night, he had read that dressing in layers was paramount in Iceland. He grabbed a parka, a wooly brown scarf, and brown suede gloves, and he headed back to the living area. Mycroft was still asleep, snoring oh-so-softly. 

Greg pushed the button for the butler and slipped quickly out of the suite, closing the door quietly behind him. When Cregg appeared, he explained about their sleepless night and asked Cregg to wake Mycroft in half an hour. Greg figured Mycroft would be annoyed, but Cregg assured him that she would make sure the first meeting was properly scheduled for Mycroft to have plenty of time to get ready, and Greg believed Mycroft needed more sleep before his tricky negotiations. 

Cregg came down with Greg to the restaurant to make sure everything was set up perfectly. They were an hour early. The restaurant had created special, fancy menus just for their breakfast. The selections included bacon, sausage, ham, kippers, fish, blood sausage, skyr (which was some kind of yoghurt thing) with fruit, buns and butter, and several jams.There were also several selections that were specifically for Japanese and South Korean palates, including miso soup. Greg made certain that carafes of ice water were on the table. The chef was prepared to squeeze fresh juice from various fruits as ordered. Urns of coffee, thick black espresso, and hot water for tea also graced the table. 

‘I think we're ready for anything,’ Greg said. Cregg nodded in agreement. 

Just then, Jonesy arrived, a half hour early.

‘Jonesy! It's so good to see you!’ Greg squashed his irritation at having to socialize so soon.

‘I'm sorry I'm so early,’ Jonesy said. ‘Wanda kicked me out. She wanted to prepare for today, and I guess I was in the way.’

‘No problem at all,’ Greg said. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘Do you have some orange juice?’

‘But of course!’

A waiter immediately disappeared to the kitchen, and within a minute, a large glass of orange juice appeared. Jonesy took a sip and looked astonished.

‘This is truly fresh,’ he exclaimed.

‘Only the best for our guests,’ Greg said, glad he found a substitute word for “spouses”.

* * *

Breakfast was a quiet affair. People were still waking up. Greg managed to surround himself with Rika next to him in one chair and Judy on the other side, so he was unplagued by anything but Simon’s attempts at eye-fucking, which were easily avoided. When Simon tried to purse his lips at Greg in a parody of a kiss, Greg laughed out loud at the absurdity. (Simon looked pleased, though, and had probably taken it as encouragement.)

By the time they had all sipped the last of their teas and coffees, were blotting their mouths with thick cotton, slate-blue napkins, and were stretching and making grumbly waking-up noises, the restaurant had begun to see a few more customers. Gentle Fauré-style classical music had been turned on when their party had begun eating, and now it picked up into a peppier Bach beat.

Greg stood. “Well, my friends, now our day’s adventure can begin! We have a car to take us to _The Volcano House_ , which is a science exhibit on the volatile nature of this land we’re on! Then, after lunch, those who are interested will join us in a _helicopter_ tour of what we will have been studying!”

Greg watched their faces as he laid out the short itinerary. As a DCI, he was used to watching for reactions after assignments. Judy, her light tan skin contrasting beautifully with black hair in a severe ponytail, winced when he said “studying.” Jonesy’s rich mahogany mein paled at the word “volcano.” Helena, a very pale, blonde translator Cregg had brought down halfway through breakfast, murmured to Rika, who was so tiny she was almost wizened and whose calm, aged expression did not change in the slightest.

And Simon, tall, dark-haired, ivory-skinned prick that he was, had sidled up to Greg and put his fucking _arm_ around Greg as he talked. Greg removed it, Simon replaced it, and finally Greg walked away, hoping the others would simply follow him out to the car. This was not as smooth a move as he’d have wanted, though, as everyone had to stop and bundle up in piles of coats and gloves and hats. At least it kept the dickhead occupied.

Greg managed to arrange the limo so that he was sitting backwards, watching his charges, as the rest struggled into two rows of seats. The car was black with a leather interior, iced bottles of water and champagne, and altogether as luxurious as the rest of the accommodations had been so far.

Greg cleared his throat.

'As I said, we’re going to the Volcano House. It has some geological exhibitions, and I understand there’s a cinema, with movies about Iceland’s volcanoes.'

Helena translated into Japanese for her client seated next to her.

'Are we actually...we’re not _actually_ going to be on top of an, uh, _actual_ volcano, are we?' Jonesy asked. He was seated in the corner, carefully not touching anyone.

'Oh, no,' Greg laughed a little. 'No, this is just a museum _about_ volcanoes. Although Iceland is riddled with them; it’s one of the most geologically active places in the world. _But--'_ he added, as he saw the alarm on the man’s face, 'we are perfectly safe here in Reykjavík. This land is solid. (I think.)'

The driver turned a bit. 'Yes indeed, we are quite safe. The worst that could happen is an earthquake.'

Jonesy blanched a little. The Japanese translator continued to quietly convey the conversation.

'Here we are!' Greg said with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

'What an excellent idea!' boomed their big Icelandic guide Reynar in perfectly unaccented English, who had joined them after breakfast. 'Learning about geology in the world’s geological capital! Only place better would be the Marianas Trench, but I don’t think any of us are going there, are we! Ha ha ha!'

As soon as they entered the building, which was kept to a rather uncomfortably high temperature, coats came off and were checked in, and then Greg herded them into the main room of the museum. 

Cregg had ensured that there were two docents assigned just to their party--though no one else was in the museum, so the precaution was unnecessary. Greg consulted with them anyway, introducing them to his people. One of the docents gave a lovely (and delightfully short) introduction to the topic and the museum.

Around the border of the main room were fairly standard exhibitions behind glass, explaining in several languages of copy what geological forces shaped Iceland, with interesting 3-d models and digital graphics. People wandered around looking at these. But Jonesy was immediately drawn to the display in the middle of the room: a real, live, volcano experiment, like the ones children did in science class!

Over and over, Jonesy pushed the button, and a red foamy 'lava' poured out of the model. The display table was getting flooded, and liquid was starting to drip down the table legs, seeping through the wooden frame surrounding it.

'Hee!' Jones giggled. 'This is great!'

'Yeah...maybe we should stop so we don’t flood the exhibit area?' Greg suggested.

'Oh no, that’s fine,' the nearby docent said, mopping the floor with a gray-fibred mop. 'We love it when people enjoy our exhibits.' Indeed, she looked delighted to find someone really getting into it. She explained to Greg how the exhibit worked--the vinegar and baking soda interacted, and the dish soap added the bubbles. They both squatted down to look under the table, where she opened up some little doors to show him the ingredients for the “lava”.

Greg then wandered over to one of the surrounding glass cases. Judy was admiring a giant contour map behind glass. When you pushed a button, you could simulate the rising seas from climate change with lights that highlighted the disappearing coastlines. The map was a projection of the world, though not one Greg had ever seen. Why was Greenland so tiny, and Africa so large?

'This is terrible,' Judy said in a hushed tone.

'What is?'

'Look at this. Here is what they expect in 5 years.' She pushed a button, and some small islands in the Pacific flashed red. 'Those are islands that will disappear. Now, look at this.' She pushed another button, and a lot more things along coasts flashed red.

'Look at San Francisco.'

'It’s all red.'

'Yes. In 100 years, it’s entirely under water.'

'Then why is it red?'

'They’re dramatically pointing out the changes between the button pushes,' she explained.

'Oh. That’s...not too good, is it?'

'No, it really isn’t. But the scientists have been telling us this for years. _Politicians_ just don’t do anything about it.'

Greg bristled but kept it inside. Mycroft was a politician, and he most certainly was trying to do something about it with this conference. He thought. Maybe. Didn’t it have something to do with the climate? He wasn’t entirely sure. He left Judy pushing buttons and grumbling.

'Look, look, Gregory!' Reynar pointed to a wall-sized movie loop that showed continents merging and splitting. 'Here is how Iceland was formed!' 

Greg watched as one land mass was created. 'That’s Pangea, right?'

'No,' murmured a docent. 'This was well before Pangea. Watch.'

Land masses split apart and merged again. A counter on the left of the screen showed milennia passing. After a while, dinosaur and plant symbols popped up, then disappeared. The land masses started to rearrange themselves to look a bit more like the map Greg knew, and symbols of apes and other animals showed up on the left.

Everything else seemed to sort of settle down as a counter switched over to A.D. years, but Iceland kept kind of shifting around. It made Greg feel a little dizzy to look at it.

'I wonder if things are still moving,' he said a little breathlessly.

'Oh yes, indeed they are. Just slowly enough that we will be long gone before it’s terribly obvious,' the man in the blue museum blazer said. 'However, the beauty of Iceland is that you can see the changes happening in real time.'

'Like earthquakes?' Jonesy said, having come up behind them.

'Indeed! We have them all the time.'

'But probably not in the next few days, right?' Greg prompted.

'Oh, you never know! Earthquakes cannot be predicted.'

Jones blanched a little, as he had in the car.

Simon came up behind Greg and put his arms around his waist, hanging his head on Greg’s shoulder. “He’s a funny little guy, isn’t he?” he said, nodding at Jonesy.

Greg unwrapped the offending arms. “You’re a funny little guy, if you think I won’t tell Portland what you’re doing,” he said in a low voice.

“Ha! Portland doesn’t care if I pick up such a pretty, pretty boy,” Simon said, running a finger down Greg’s arm. Greg shuddered under the layers of cloth.

“You keep this up, and you’re going to be very sorry.”

“Will I?” Simon’s expression turned ugly, and he spoke in a low, fierce tone now as well. “What are you going to do? You can’t do anything to ruin this for your precious boyfriend. You might as well _lay back_ and _think of England_ to make sure that Portland does what your man wants.”

“Boyfriend?” “My man?” What the hell was Simon on about? It seemed he saw everything through a haze of sexual interpretation. 

'This is an amusing little museum. But perhaps we could get together later for something more interesting?'

'I’m afraid I’m in charge of all of you for the whole day,' Greg said, pulling Simon’s arm off.

'Then perhaps in the evening?' he said, his face far too close to Greg’s.

Greg stepped back.

'I’m busy.'

'That’s a shame. I’m sure my partner would be very interested to hear my viewpoint on whether we should follow Mr Holmes’ suggestions, and I’m sure you could explain them to me in such a way that I could recommend them.'

“I don’t care what deal is being talked about, I’m certain that Mycroft is not offering up my--” Greg turned beet red as he realized that sentence was heading toward “offering up my chastity”. Luckily, Reynar came up on his other side.

“The movie is about to start! Let’s go take a look! I’ve seen it before, it’s got some excellent cinematography.” He gave Simon a sharp look and pulled at Greg’s arm. “Come on, everyone!” he called.

Greg took a moment to see how the others were doing. He was so upset about Simon, he’d lost track. Judy looked bored; Helena was mostly silent, and Rika, her charge, was completely quiet; Jonesy was wrapped in smiles, and the docent who had been running the experiments for him was obviously thrilled by having such an enthusiastic adult customer.

'Let’s just go see the movie.'

'Of course.' Simon moved off towards the theatre, and Greg felt his gorge rise. He clapped his hand over his mouth and took a few deep breaths.

This was the first time he’d been sexually harassed, personally. He’d heard about his ex, Michelle’s, experiences, of course, and he’d had to go through the whole reporting process with Sally and that fucktard property supervisor. Sally had thanked him and had said he’d done a great job helping her. He wasn’t sure about that, though; as soon as she’d come to him, he’d started the reporting and documenting processes, but he was angry that he hadn’t noticed what was going on before. As soon as she brought it to his attention, a thousand other little things he’d seen fell into place. 

It would be very easy for Greg to take Simon down. As a London police officer, he didn’t carry a gun, which meant that he was very well trained in hand-to-hand combat. But he couldn’t react that way--he couldn’t ruin whatever deal Mycroft was trying to put together. If he hurt Simon (and oh how he wanted to hurt him), then Simon would complain to his partner, his partner would withdraw, and as far as Greg could tell, the whole set of dominoes would fall--in the wrong way.

So he had to continue to pretend he didn’t want to knee the guy in the crotch while keeping Simon’s paws off him. Okay, women had to do this all the time, he could probably handle it.

* * *

Everyone seemed to be reasonably well-entertained at the Volcano House, and business was brisk at the 'boutique' gift shop afterwards. Greg bought some fancy pumice stones and some pretty lava jewelry for his daughters. On a bit of a whim, he picked up a jar of black lava bath salt for Mycroft, who would probably throw it in the trash, but it was the thought. Poor Mycroft, stuck in tedious negotiations while Greg got to wander about in the crisp clean air of Iceland. And most of his charges were pretty interesting. 

As they piled out of the limo at the hotel car park, Greg raised his voice to be heard.

'We all have two hours to rest and get some lunch, and then we’ll meet back here for the ride to the helicopter pad. Hands up, again, for who is going?'

Only five other people were game to go on a helicopter trip over and around volcanoes, so they would all fit just fine in the touring ‘copter Greg had hired. It was really pretty fun using Mycroft’s black American Express card. Mycroft had corrected him, telling him it was called a Centurion Card. Greg had countered by giving him shit for using an American card. Nonetheless, it opened more doors faster than Sherlock’s lock picking skills--and Sherlock could be pretty fast.

He wasn’t even sure how much this helicopter ride was costing them. Mycroft had been very clear in impressing on Greg that this deal was of significant international importance, both ethically and financially, and spending 100.000 pounds on a helicopter ride was trivial.

* * *

Greg left the group, went upstairs, and walked into the suite to find Mycroft sprawled on the couch, sipping from a very full whiskey glass.

'Things not going smoothly?' Greg asked, cracking open a Diet Coke and slugging back half of it in one go, then letting out a long, luxurious belch. He saw Mycroft wince and grinned.

'No, not very smoothly at all,' Mycroft replied, pretending not to notice the burp. 'The ambassador from South Korea has stopped speaking altogether, and the Prime Minister of Japan is sulking in his room.'

'The Prime Minister is here???'

'Yes, he got in this morning. For what good it will do us.'

'Is his wife here?' Greg began to panic. That was a level of protocol he was really not prepared for.

'No, she declined to attend. He doesn’t think it’s important enough, anyway. He’s probably going to leave before tonight and this whole thing is going to collapse.' Mycroft took a healthy gulp of liquor and choked, spilling whiskey on himself, the sofa, and the floor.

'Oh geez. Here.' Greg grabbed some kitchen roll and rushed over, trying to pat down Mycroft’s suit.

'The suit is ruined, never mind,' Mycroft barked. 'Just try to fix the carpet.'

'Gentlemen, you may leave that to me.' Cregg appeared, as if from the aether. 'As soon as you leave, we can take care of that. Mr Holmes, if you want to change into another suit, I’ll have this one presentable in an hour.'

'Thank you, Cregg.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Greg, who sheepishly held up his butler-caller box. 'And thank _you_ , Gregory.'

A few minutes later, Mycroft emerged from his room in a thick bathrobe and sat on a seat at the kitchen bar, looking gloomy.

'Can I fix you something to eat? The chef appears to be...elsewhere.'

'Do you know what I would really like, Gregory?'

'Name it. If it’s a sandwich, it’s yours.'

'Peanut butter and jelly, actually.'

Greg stared at Mycroft.

'Comfort food, from my childhood. Nurse would make it when Mother wasn’t around. Do we happen to have anything like that?'

Greg rummaged around and came up with a jar of almond butter, some local crowberry jam, and a bag of plain bagels.

'Close enough,' Mycroft said with a sigh.

Greg found a sprig of parsley in a vegetable drawer and put it on the sea-blue plate, presenting it to Mycroft with a flourish. He caught Mycroft grinning briefly at the superfluous garnish.

'‘S not foo baf,' Greg said through a bite of his own sandwich.

'Oh, Gregory. Please. Chew with your mouth closed. Growing up with Sherlock making the ‘see food’ joke every day has given me a bit of a phobia.'

Greg chugged some ale he’d found and swallowed. 'Whatever you say, Mycroft sir.'

'No need to be like that, it’s a reasonable request,' he said mildly. 'So. How are things with the partners?'

'So far so good. Everyone seemed to like the geology museum, which, I admit, was a bit of a risk. And the geology museum liked us; I think we spent at least 500 pounds on doo-dads. Oh! That reminds me!'

Greg went to his day bag, pulled out the jar of salt, and set it lightly on the countertop.

'What’s this?'

'A gift.'

'For whom?'

'For _youm_.'

'Bath...salt?'

' _Lava_ bath salt.'

'Why would I need lava bath salt?'

'You don’t! That’s what makes it fun.'

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it a few times.

'I….thank you, Gregory. This was quite unexpected.'

'I saw it and I thought of you.'

'You saw tiny chips of sharp black rock and thought of me.'

Greg cleared his throat. 'NO, not that. I saw a beautiful, if foreboding, luxury item that people use to treat themselves. And I thought of someone similar who might need to treat _him_ self once in a while.'

Greg stood there, sipping his ale, running back over what he’d said. Um. “Foreboding”, yeah. But he also said “beautiful”.

Oops.

A quick glance confirmed that it hadn’t slipped past Mycroft, either, but Mycroft was looking pensive, so at least Greg hadn’t mortally offended him by finding him hot.

It had taken Greg a while to realize that he had a thing for Mycroft, actually. When he first saw Mycroft, at the college crime scene when Sherlock had nearly died and been saved by a bullet that John Watson _definitely_ did not fire, Greg had seen a balding man with a pointy bird nose and a snooty factor that went off any charts Greg had ever envisioned. Over the years, he had seen Mycroft scold Sherlock, be disgusted by Sherlock, argue with Sherlock, and generally try to care for someone who desperately needed it and viciously repelled it.

But he had also seen Mycroft look tired and sad at Sherlock’s bed after overdoses. He had seen Mycroft unguarded, once, staring wistfully out an office window that oversaw a prolific rose garden. And a few times, he had gotten to see Mycroft laugh, not with a bitter laugh or the laugh of having won a political battle, but with a true laugh--and it was then he’d realized that Mycroft Holmes was unusually good-looking.

Since then, Mycroft had starred in a few dreams. Sultry dreams. Fuzzy, foggy dreams fueled by memories of years-before sex with another man, dreams which mostly consisted of kissing Mycroft and the two of them magically coming without any specific action. He’d wake up from those dreams feeling oddly happy, until he remembered about whom he’d been dreaming and would feel as though he had a literal crest on top of his head to fall.

Mycroft was not the type of person to have a significant other.

And, of course, until just about now in his life, Greg had been married to someone that _he_ , at least, was not going to cheat on. It dawned on him that he was no longer bound by that vow.

His next thought was Simon. He glanced down and was glad that he was still wearing his wedding ring. Wait. Why was he still wearing his wedding ring? Oh well, it could help out in this stupid sticky Simon situation. 

* * *

Before they got into the helicopter, everyone was strapped into a life jacket and fitted out with a bulky headset. Greg found himself on a very cushy seat next to Judy and Jonesy; Rika and her translator sat with Reynar on the other seat. Greg was particularly surprised to find Jonesy with them. He had been very nervous during the dinner and when warned of potential earthquakes. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to hop into a helicopter. But indeed, once they were all belted in, he started giggling again as he had at the volcano display. Maybe being nervous and shy made risk-taking even more fun and daring.

'Does anyone have air sickness problems?' the tour guide asked over the headsets. Everyone answered in the negative, to Greg’s great relief. It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask or to prepare for that sort of thing. The engine started and even with the thick earpieces, it was a huge rumble. Jonesy’s 'Whoo hoo!' was nonetheless audible in everyone’s ears.

The ride took them over several dormant volcanoes and one slightly less dormant one. They could feel the heat as they flew over, and steam rose from the crater. The guide assured them that this volcano was nowhere near bursting, and in fact pointed out the scientific instruments bristling around and inside the rim. 

'Many countries come to learn about current geology here. NASA from the US has set up the instruments on this volcano.'

'NASA? Like space?'

'Yes, they do a lot of earth science, too, and understanding our volcanoes helps understand extra-planetary volcanoes.'

'Like on Mars?' Jonesy asked.

'Exactly like that. Those volcanoes are dead, but by understanding how ours work, we can figure out Mars’ past history.'

'So….astronauts come out here?' Greg asked. 

'No, most of these instruments beam their data back via satellite. Astronauts don’t visit us, but scientists do! None of them are around at the moment.'

Rika’s translator asked, 'Has Iceland ever had an astronaut?'

'We did indeed! Bjarni Tryggvason rode on the space shuttle. He was...er... _Canadian_ , but he was _born_ Icelandic. Also, Apollo astronauts trained in our country to simulate the rugged conditions of the Moon.'

They were flying over black rock that stretched to the horizon. It was bleak. Bits of green poked up here and there between cracks, but mostly it was a barren landscape. The sun was setting at 4 pm, adding to the feeling of gloom that settled over the group.

'It’s truly beautiful out here,' Judy said.

'Yeah. Beautiful. But in a really stark way,' Greg muttered.

'What was that?' the guide asked.

'Yeah, it’s that, it’s beautiful,' Greg said louder. 

The guide began telling them general information about Icelandic history as they headed back to the landing pad, but Greg wasn’t paying attention. There was something about the angle of the sun, and all the rock and ice they’d flown over, that was seeping into his consciousness like oil into cool clear water. Between the black lava flow landscape, the darkening sky, and dread of Simon awaiting him for dinner, Greg found his spirits plummeting with the helicopter as it approached the pad.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner party! With a side of diplomacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank savvyblunders, ylc1, and spudqueen enough for all beta-ing this chapter within a couple of hours of it being written. (Poor spudqueen had to listen to it over the phone!) I've tweaked quite a lot since any of them saw it so thank them for fixing it before I tried to break it again.

By the time he was back at his and Mycroft’s suite, it was 1600, and the stars were out. They’d gotten four hours of sunshine, and Greg realized he was really feeling it.

There was a knock at the door. 

'Come,' Greg called, then started to go to the door, realizing it was locked. But Cregg let herself in.

'I wanted to ask, Gregory. Have you been using the light box we provide, to counteract the effects of our short January daytimes?'

Greg blinked. That’s it, Cregg was officially magic. Or clairvoyant. Or something. 

'Uh, no, actually. We have a light box?'

'Yes indeed, and all of us natives use them. But it’s rather more imperative for people who are visiting and haven’t adjusted to the routine.' As she explained, she was pulling a big white box out of a drawer and setting it up on the kitchen counter.

'Doctors recommend that you sit near it, with it set to the highest power, for about thirty minutes. You don’t need to look at it; you can be reading. You can even keep your eyes closed if you prefer. But you must do it while you are awake, and preferably before noontime.'

'Okay. I’ll let Mycroft know.'

'Please do. I’ll let the chef know that you’re back.'

'Cregg?'

'Yes, Gregory?'

'How did you know?'

Cregg turned back around and looked at him seriously.

'It’s pretty easy to spot it happening. I could see it when you came back in the hotel. There’s no need for this to be a dark trip, Gregory. It’s okay to have some happiness.' She gave him a small, enigmatic smile, turned, and left.

Greg wondered if she was only talking about the sunlight.

He’d fixed himself a vodka tonic by the time Mycroft came through the door. Mycroft’s hair was a bit out of place, and his tie looked...rumpled?

'Mycroft, are you okay? You look done in.'

'Thank you, Gregory, you look particularly handsome yourself.' Mycroft slumped onto one of the stools.

Greg got out the whiskey he knew Mycroft liked and poured it into a coffee cup sitting on the counter. He knew that Mycroft was not doing well when Mycroft sipped the whiskey out of the cup without complaint. Especially since the side of the cup said, oddly, “Fuck it, let’s go to Iceland!”

'Negotiations not holding up, I guess,' Greg said quietly.

'Well, there’s always dinner. Where is the chef, by the way?'

'He’s on his way; Cregg just said so.'

'They’re all coming here tonight. I need your help.'

'I’ll do my best. They seemed to have a good day today...'

'I’m glad. Mine are almost not speaking to each other. Portland, in particular, is especially angry.'

'Portland. He’s the one with…' Greg left it open, not entirely sure who was who.

'Simon. The prat with the hair gel.'

'Simon. Yes. Simon. That one. I know him. Yes.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Greg and watched him for a few moments.

'He’s been hitting on you.'

'Well…'

'No, he hasn’t. He’s been attacking you.'

'”Attack” is a strong word for it.'

'Assaulting, then.'

'Nothing I can’t handle.'

Mycroft’s face went past red into a light shade of eggplant. 'You shouldn’t _have_ to handle _anything_. What did you do?'

'I didn’t do anything to mess up the deal, Mycroft! What do you think I am?'

Mycroft stalked around the counter and raised his hand as though he was going to touch Greg. Greg flinched a bit and was horrified that he did. Mycroft drew his hand back. 'I am terribly sorry, Gregory. You should not have to deal with scum like that.'

'Well, it’s not that big a deal...I just, y’know, made sure not to be alone with him, took his hands off me, laughed it off, that sort of thing.'

Mycroft slammed both hands down on the counter. Greg backed away and into the dining room. 'Mycroft, I’m sure I didn’t do anything to make him angry…'

'Oh gods. You think I’m worried about this damn deal? Gregory…to think that that fiend _touched_ you…'

'Oh, it wasn’t a big--'

'Don’t utter those words again!' Mycroft said sharply. 'It is indeed a “big deal” and it will stop now.'

'Wait, wait. Hold on. This deal is important, isn’t it? To industry, to England, to, uh, whales, is it? A little discomfort--'

' _Sexual harassment_ is not a _little_ discomfort--'

'--is not worth giving up on one of the more magnificent--'

'I will _not_ have anything further to do with--'

'It’s not that Limestone guy’s fault! Please, Mycroft, don’t do anything rash.'

Mycroft was breathing hard. 'That scum will not set one foot anywhere near you again.'

'Then Limestone--'

'Portland.'

'Portland will leave, and the whole thing falls apart.'

'I don’t care.'

' _I do!_ ' Greg shouted. 

They stared at each other.

'Look. I can handle Simon. I don’t totally understand this deal, but it seems beyond important, and I don’t want to be the reason this falls through.'

Mycroft grabbed his coffee cup and came around to the living area. He sat on a sofa and took a big gulp of the very fine, sipping whiskey. 

'Gregory, this stops now. But we don’t have to be clumsy about it. I’ll call Anthea. She could easily create an emergency that whisks Simon away in the next half-hour, and Portland will be none the wiser.'

'Won’t Portland suspect?'

'Probably not. Often the partners are clueless.'

Greg sat down next to Mycroft and sighed. 'Actually, Mycroft. I’d be obliged. I’m not sure how far Simon would push it, and to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how much further I could let slide.’

Mycroft looked at Greg quietly. There was no pity in his expression; only resolution.

‘I really didn’t want to mess this up for you,' Greg said. ‘Are you sure this is something that can be done without damaging your mission?’

'Gregory…I’m sure. I want to make this right.' Mycroft reached out. This time, Greg didn’t flinch, and Mycroft didn’t withdraw. He put his hand lightly on Greg’s forearm, covered in the thick brown jumper. He moved his fingers a little, feeling the cloth, seeming as though he didn’t realize he was doing it. Greg closed his eyes and leaned against the couch back.

'Oh!' He opened his eyes again, and Mycroft moved his hand away. 'I forgot! We’re supposed to be doing some sort of light box thing.'

'Of _course_. I can’t believe I forgot that, it’s rather essential to stopping over here. Is that it on the counter?'

'Yeah, Cregg came in and got it out. I think I must have looked really ragged out for her to notice.'

'You do look a bit...peaky.'

'Thanks a bunch.' But Greg smiled; it was obvious that Mycroft cared about him much more than he had realized.

Mycroft fetched the thing and put it on the coffee table, which had a convenient electrical outlet cleverly hidden in the design in the middle. 'Let’s put this on and rest a bit in its artificial glow.'

* * *

Two servers, male, blond, and in the buttercup-yellow and greige house uniform of the hotel, set shallow white bowls in front of everyone. The table was covered in a faintly peach-pink plain cotton cloth with a darker peach runner down the middle, which started at Mycroft’s end and ended at Greg’s, rather far away. On one side sat Rika and George Makara, the envoys from Japan, with Rika’s translator Helena between them. Then there was Judy Seung, sitting to Greg’s left.

On the other side were Portland, an empty seat for Simon which was swiftly removed before dinner started, Wanda and Jonesy Smith, and Minsu, Judy’s wife. Greg hadn’t been able to work out if they were legally married or even “out” in their home in Seoul. Not that it mattered.

The soup--if it could be called that--was some kind of clear broth. Greg picked up the simple and painfully elegant spoon and sipped. It had the faintest flavour of meat. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him from a good 12 feet away, and Greg decided he wasn’t meant to have made noise. He watched as Minsu, on his right, set her spoon on the plate holding the bowl, and Greg followed suit. He wasn’t going to be able to figure out how to sip broth without making noise, and it tasted of almost nothing anyway.

‘A lovely consommé,’ Portland commented to Mycroft.

‘Indeed. We were pleased that Chef Reichart was able to join us.’

‘I don’t think there’s any crab on the menu,’ Greg said to Judy. She laughed pleasantly as Mycroft scowled. Well, it had happened, no sense trying to pretend there hadn’t been a fuck-up, was there?

‘Gregory, why don’t you tell us what the better half of us were up to today?’ Mycroft prompted.

Now it was Greg’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Better half? 

‘Well, as _half_ of us know, we started out at the Volcano House.’

‘Oh, it was so lovely,’ Judy said. ‘Fascinating, all about the geology of Iceland.’

The servers removed the bowls and replaced them with small plates that had toast piled with smoked salmon and curly shavings of what looked like lemon rind and some kind of green thing. Greg popped one in his mouth. It wasn’t bad, but it was a little . Wine was poured for those who wanted it; chilled bottles of sparkling water were given to the others.

‘They had a volcano demonstration!’ gushed Jonesy. ‘A science experiment, that showed how the heat and violence of the lava starts deep below and SPEWS forth in a magnificent rain of destruction!’ His wife patted him on the arm. 

‘I hope he didn’t cause too much trouble for you,’ she said, leaning over a bit to talk to Greg.

‘Not at all! The docents loved him because he didn’t get bored.’

Mycroft glared.

‘I mean, not that any of _us_ got bored. But there were some kids that came in, after a while, that were acting like they were too cool for volcano demos and geology movies.’

‘Oh, the movie was the best part,’ Jonesy said. ‘They had an animation of what Iceland would have looked like millions of years ago. I liked watching the continents move around.’

‘And how was your side of the wars, Mycroft?’ Greg prompted back.

Mycroft rubbed his face a little as Portland burst out laughing.

‘Sorry, was “wars” the wrong term?’

‘No, no, Greg, if you had been there, you would have certainly picked that term. Our afternoon was a lively one,’ Portland said, chuckling.

George did not look amused. He looked like his blood pressure was getting a bit too high. Wanda looked blank, though Jonesy shrank from her ever-so-slightly. 

‘Minsu and I think that if the men just left it to us, we could work it out in an hour or two,’ Wanda said cheerily. Now it was Minsu’s turn to glare, shooting eye daggers at her next-chair neighbour.

‘It is not a matter of male or female,’ George said in a thickly accented reproach. ‘It is a matter of sensible and foolish. The proposals are not serious ideas that will lead to any kind of agreement.’

‘Then after lunch, some of us went on a helicopter!’ Greg jumped in desperately.

‘Really,’ Mycroft said. ‘And what was that like?’

‘You’ve been on a helicopter before, surely, Mycroft?’

Mycroft stared at Greg.

‘Right, of course you have. But not everyone here has. Well, I don’t mind telling you, I was a little intimidated. And then they had us put on life jackets, and that made me think twice!’

Jonesy nodded.

A server appeared at Greg’s side. ‘Sir?’ he asked in a quiet voice, and Greg nodded as slabs of pink lamb and crispy browned small potatoes were piled on his plate. More wine was being poured, but Greg hadn’t even finished his first glass.

‘And then we had to put on these ridiculously huge headsets--’

‘Not friendly to hairstyles, I’ll say!’ Judy piped up.

‘Your hair looks magnificent,’ Greg interrupted himself. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘Every good hotel has a fantastic hairdresser. I always make sure to book one wherever we go. Minsu appreciates it so.’

Minsu did not look like she would appreciate anything ever again.

‘So we piled in, and once we got used to talking over the headsets, it wasn’t too bad! They even played some cool Icelandic rock music while we flew. And of course the scenery was spectacular.’

‘Lots of rock,’ Helena said, after Rika murmured something.

‘Yes, there was rather a lot of lava,’ Greg agreed. ‘But we also got to fly over a couple of dormant volcanoes.’

‘There’s so much growing in them!’ marvelled Jonesy.

‘And then we flew over a live one...what did they call that?’ Judy said. ‘I don’t remember the right geological term, but you could feel the heat through the floor.’

‘That sounds dangerous,’ Minsu said, startled.

‘Oh, no, they assured us it wasn’t,’ Greg soothed. ‘They can tell when a volcano is going to, uh, erupt, and they said this one wasn’t anywhere close. But we could see the red lava in the middle of the crater when they tilted us over.’

‘They tilted?!’ Wanda exclaimed.

‘They did indeed. It was invigorating,’ Jonesy said. Greg grinned. Jonesy really had showed the most courage of all of them, having obviously been the most intimidated by the prospect in the first place. Greg had actually been quite surprised that Jonesy went at all.

‘Then we flew over some of the coast. That’s why we had to wear the life jackets!’ Jonesy continued. ‘There was quite a sunset.’

‘Yeah, we had to come in because the sun set around 3:30. Not much sun this time of year, is there?’ Greg said.

‘I’m glad that you were able to see a bit of the country,’ Mycroft said.

The lamb plates were cleared and each diner was given a tiny glass with a tiny spoon.

‘Bilberry sorbet,’ Mycroft explained. ‘A local delicacy.’

Greg tasted it. It was a bit like blueberries, if blueberries were a little stronger and a little sweeter.

‘It sounds like you had more success than we did,’ Portland said, ostentatiously licking the cream off his spoon. Greg hid a disgusted wince.

‘I wouldn’t say it was all bad,’ Wanda said.

‘Wouldn’t you,’ Portland sneered. ‘Mr Muskara refuses to even speak, you keep bringing up twaddle about natives, and Ms _Seung_ is about as accommodating as the lava our friends saw this afternoon. Speaking of friends, where _is_ my dear Simon, _Mycroft_?’

‘As I understand it, Simon had urgent business to attend at home. He sent his regrets this afternoon. Did he not tell you?’

Greg tried to keep his expression blank.

‘No, he most definitely did not. I suspect your evil hand in this. What have you done with my boyfriend?’

‘I’ve done nothing. I’m sorry to hear that you two are having communication problems.’

‘Oh, no problems _there_. Perhaps _your_ boyfriend has neglected to communicate how he came on to _my_ partner?’

Mycroft choked on his sorbet. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Jonesy and Judy were watching the proceedings with great interest. George was turning purple. Rika continued eating, unperturbed.

‘Yes, Simon told me all about how Greg cornered him at the _Volcano_ House--aptly named--and tried to have his way with him in the loo.’

Greg stood up and put his napkin on the table. ‘Excuse me, please,’ he said in a strangled voice, and retreated to the bedroom.

How fucking dare that fucking prick. He should have seen that coming. Would Mycroft believe him? Why wouldn’t he? Why would he take Greg’s word--that of a mere DCI--over that of Lord Portland Smarmy Smut, old English family dating back to the Normans? Greg sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. He was embarrassed to find his face wet. No, he wasn’t going to cry over that bastard. He took a deep breath, wiped his face on his sleeve, and thought about getting out his suitcase. He gave it a 50/50 chance he was about to be asked to leave.

The door to the bedroom opened.

‘Greg, they are serving the Roast Parsnip & Portobello Mushroom Pithivier. I really do recommend it. It’s basically a delicious turnip and mushroom pie.’

Greg looked up at Mycroft in disbelief. Mycroft shut the door softly.

‘Portland is gone. If you don’t feel like coming back out, no one would hold it against you...but I am rather desperate for help to salvage this. If you feel you can, it would go a long way towards putting this behind us if you could come back out.’

Mycroft looked about as uncomfortable as Greg had ever seen him.

‘Oh dear lord.’ Mycroft pulled his tie-matching handkerchief out of his suit pocket and came to stand in front of Greg. He gently blotted Greg’s cheeks.

‘I’m so sorry I’ve put you in this position. Of course you shouldn’t come back out.’

Greg looked up at Mycroft. Mycroft had dried his tears. Mycroft had _tenderly_ dried his tears, and told him to stay. To _stay_.

‘I’m fine,’ Greg lied. ‘Let’s go get ‘em.’

* * *

‘Sorry, folks. Just a little dinner theatre with your Icelandic chow,’ Greg said, and sat. There was no good way to smooth this over.

‘Where is Portland?’ Minsu asked.

Mycroft answered: ‘I’m afraid he and Simon have an urgent assignment on Adak Island.’

George snorted into his drink.

‘What’s so funny?’ Wanda asked.

‘Adak Island is at the tip of the Aleutian Island chain. It’s a hole of despair,’ George said. ‘The most exciting thing on the Island is the McDonald’s restaurant at the U S Coast Guard air base.’ He started to laugh, loudly, and the rest of the table politely joined in.

Greg gave Mycroft a look. Mycroft gave him an enigmatic smile back, and Greg grinned to himself. To think he’d doubted Mycroft. Once again, Mycroft was taking care of him in ways he never would have imagined.

Mycroft had been right; the pith-thing--the pie--was quite tasty. The conversation flowed on to safer, more shallow topics--the quality of the rooms, the flavours of the wine, the unrelenting cold. Each guest was served an individual Grand Marnier dessert souflé and tiny cups of hot, thick coffee. When the dinner party broke up, the tension had eased, and everyone bade Mycroft and Greg a pleasant good night.

George was last out the door, putting a finger to the side of his nose and wiggling his eyebrows in an obscure signal. After the door was shut, Mycroft and Greg looked at each other and broke into relieved laughter.

‘What did that mean?’ Greg said, putting his finger beside his nose.

‘I think it might have been him trying to show us he’s “in the know”? With the Adak plan? I’m really not sure,’ Mycroft said, holding onto the doorjamb for balance. He was chuckling and looked done-in.

‘We’re really punchy,’ Greg snickered.

‘That we are. I propose we get some sleep. Tomorrow will be long.’

Greg agreed, and they headed towards the bedrooms.

‘You know that tomorrow we are changing hotels, yes?’ Mycroft said as he paused in his doorway.

‘No?’

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. Yes, we’re heading out to the Ion Adventure Hotel. It’s further out in the wilderness. Should give you plenty of new activities for the others.’

‘Oh-kay. That sounds...unnecessarily complicated?’

‘Perhaps. But I wanted to shake things up a bit.’

‘They got pretty shook up tonight.’

‘In a good way, then.’

‘You’re the boss.’

Mycroft looked disturbed at that, but Greg was too tired to unpack it. He said goodnight, closed his door, and barely managed to undress before collapsing in bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're going to a new hotel--way out in the wilderness. Will it make a difference? What will their new room be like? Where will Greg take his people for entertainment? Can they live without Cregg?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to ylc1 and savvyblunders for their whiplash-inducing turnaround time on beta-ing. I can't believe how fast these two do it and they give me so much courage.

‘What’s the plan for today?’ Greg asked.

He and Mycroft were sitting next to each other at the long dining table, at the end near the windows. The chef had prepared, upon request, two bowls of porridge with butter and Canada maple syrup. Somehow this modest meal had surpassed even the sumptuousness of the night before.

‘In an hour, all of us will be moved to the Adventure Hotel. I’ll be holding today’s two meetings in their conference room. I suggest you take everyone to the nearby hot springs in the morning; that will give you time to review the other activities available and plan something for the afternoon. You can all eat together in the dining room or have separate lunches again.’

‘Tell me again why we are moving ops?’

‘“Ops”--for “operations”? Is that a Scotland Yard thing? Cute, Gregory. I think taking this problem into the countryside--into the wilderness--will highlight just how important it is that we come to an agreement. Not all of this deal is about climate change, but enough of it is that I am hoping that the starkly beautiful environment will inspire accommodation to my plans. More importantly, I’m hoping that you taking the spouses into the wilderness will change a few of _their_ minds.’

‘The wilderness, huh? I’m more of a city boy, you know.’

‘The hotel will help you arrange any of the activities you decide to do. They are well-versed in taking tourists out to the sights.’

‘Okay.’ Greg squelched a sigh. He really did have the easier end of this, and a soak in hot springs sounded downright relaxing. Plus, he was now left with people he could stand; his arch nemesis had been removed.

‘Gentlemen.’ Cregg appeared. ‘It’s been a real pleasure serving you, and I wish you the best at your next stop. May I help you pack?’

* * *

Mycroft had hired a bus to take them all together to the new venue. But it was a bus in name only; it was like no other bus Greg had ever experienced.

The hotel staff, of course, carefully placed all of their belongings in the luggage hold. Greg stepped into the bus to find that each seat was its own tiny oasis. He’d seen seats like these on YouTube videos of first class travel...each seat was padded, was surrounded by its own cubicle walls, and had lots of amenities like its own television with over a hundred movies and TV shows available (for free, of course).

He and Reynard, who was coming with them, made sure everyone got settled. Most of the couples chose to sit in adjoining cubicle-seats, but Judy and Minsu sat in separate rows. Greg made a worried note of that. Helena sat in a row behind George and Rika. That meant that either George translated for Rika, or she wouldn’t understand anything they said. Oh well.

Once everyone was on board, Greg stood at the front. ‘Campers, it’s good to have you all here! Welcome to the Holmes Express!’

No one laughed.

‘Right.’ He clasped his hands nervously. ‘As you all know, we are moving to Ion’s amazing Adventure Hotel in Selfoss, which is basically the wilderness. I think we will all enjoy the stunning scenery and the peace and quiet. If you need anything, anything at all, please find me or Reynard here and we’ll be sure to take care of you.

‘For those of you who are “with me,” as it were, we’ll be going to a hot springs and sauna after you’ve checked in and gotten settled. So meet me, if you would, in the lobby at 10. That’s just about sunrise for us lucky spouses--uh, partners. And we’ll go have some bliss in some hot water.’

Hot water. That’s what he’d just gotten himself into. He’d referred to himself as a partner. Yikes! He glanced over to see if Mycroft had noticed, but Mycroft seemed preoccupied with giving instructions to the driver. Oh. And it appeared Cregg had decided to come along. That was a relief; if anything went wrong, he knew she could handle it.

Greg decided to take the seat across the aisle from Mycroft. Now they were both sitting in aisle seats, five feet apart. Greg was blushing hard and looked out the window as the bus smoothly set off on its journey. The lights of Reykjavík soon gave way to dark countryside, and Greg found himself drowsing. He pushed his seat back almost as far as it would go--at full extension, it turned into a proper little bed, but he wanted to try to stay awake.

But before he knew it, they were there, and he had indeed napped. He rubbed his face, pushed his seat back up, and hopped up to help everyone out of the bus. Cregg made sure that the wheelchair ramp was activated to help Rika, who was so short, get out easily. The hotel staff rushed out from the lobby to unpack the bus and lug the baggage inside.

Cregg shook hands with one of the staff who came out.

“Greg, this is James. He’ll be looking out for you here. James, this is Mr Holmes. He and Greg are in charge.”

Handshakes were given all around.

‘Greg, I’m on my way back. It’s been a real pleasure serving you.’ Cregg put her hand on Greg’s forearm briefly.

‘Aw, c’mere, if it’s okay?’ Greg held his arms out, and Cregg agreeably hugged him. ‘You’ve been amazing, thank you. I never had a butler before. Now I don’t know how I’m going to live without one!’

‘I’m sure James will take good care of you. But it really has been a delight to get to know you. I hope you’ll visit us again soon.’

Greg watched Cregg get back on the bus and felt a bit misty-eyed. He’d only known her less than two days, but it felt like a lot longer.

‘Greg, get over here.’ Mycroft seemed angry. Shit, was he mad about the slip-up about Greg implying they were “partners”?

‘They’ve fucked things up,’ Mycroft growled.

James was looking very, very chagrined.

‘Sir, I’m so very sorry. We overbooked. All of your guests will have their rooms as planned, but…’ He coughed.

‘But?’ Greg prompted.

‘But. Um. We don’t have a room for you and Mr Holmes. Well, we _do_ , but it’s not a hotel room, as such.’

‘Spit it out, Jimmy.’ Greg figured he could go diminutive if this was as bad as it sounded.

‘We have a room. But it’s not a proper room.’

‘Then what kind of room is it?’ Mycroft asked.

‘I’m afraid it’s where we store our cleaning supplies. But we’ve moved in a bed and a lamp and…’ He trailed off at the stormy look on Mycroft’s face.

‘“ _A_ ” bed?’ Greg asked.

‘Well, yes, only one will fit in there. That won’t be a problem, will it?’

‘ _All_ of this is a problem, James. You can be sure that the British Parliament will be well-apprised of the unsuitability of this hotel.’

‘Mycroft, should we go back to Reykjavík?’ Greg asked timidly.

‘No, we’re here. It’s important that we make this look like everything is normal to everyone else.’

James offered: ‘Sirs, we _will_ have a proper suite for you tomorrow. As early as 10 am. It’s just...tonight...I’m afraid…’

‘Yes, yes, we get the picture,’ Mycroft snarled. ‘Are our bags going to the “room” now?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Greg, you go organize the spouses. I’ll get the conference room set up. We’ll just have to stay out of our “room” as long as possible.’

‘I, uh, have to get a change of clothes for the hot springs,’ Greg mumbled.

‘Of course. Well, I’ll go with you to see this travesty, then.’

They walked through the lobby, making pleasantries with the other people as they got their keys and had their luggage wrangled. James showed them to the elevator--and pressed a button to go _down_. Then they walked through a bland hallway that was clearly a service thoroughfare, and James opened a plain door. To a room barely bigger than the double bed that had been shoved into it.

‘Is this a sodding joke?’ Mycroft said.

Greg burst into nervous giggles. Mycroft cursing would never get old.

* * *

When Greg got back upstairs, everyone was sitting around in the lobby. Everyone being “his” everyone--Judy, Rika and Helena, Jonesy, and Reynard. 

Greg realized that the ratio had turned into one-to-one for helpers-to-guests. Well, helpers and guests alike would enjoy the hot springs.

‘I’m glad you’re all here! Is everyone settled, are your rooms okay?’

There were nods all around.

‘My room is particularly excellent! There is a beautiful picture of a horse that takes up a whole wall!’ Reynard boomed.

Greg gritted his teeth. Even Reynard had a decent room. Oh well, he supposed the worst room was the responsibility of the hosts.

‘I hope you will all enjoy our next activity. We are going to the Laugarvatn Fontana geothermal baths! Have you all got your bathing gear, like I asked earlier?’

More nodding.

‘I’m afraid this is another bus ride...it’s about 40 minutes, this time. But at the other end is hot springs bliss. I’m told that Laugarvatn is a unique hot springs experience...there are also saunas, and we can go in the lake, although it is a cold lake. Then we’ll be taking a bread-baking class that uses the geothermal heat in the sands to make bread!’

No one looked particularly enthusiastic. The sun was finally coming up and everyone seemed tired. Well, Greg thought, these springs might just be the ticket to get everyone relaxed and rejuvenated. He and Reynard helped them gather their things and make their way back out to the very-luxurious bus.

Greg was surprised to find that James had organized a breakfast snack. Each of them was offered a tray that had croissants, breakfast meats, a selection of jellies, and the ubiquitous skyr yoghurt. Reynard took up the host duties and made sure everyone had tea, coffee, or juice as they wished.

‘Thank you, Reynard. You’re a godsend,’ Greg said quietly as Reynard poured him some thick, hot espresso. 

‘This is my job, my friend. And your group is particularly lovely to work with.’

‘We are?’

‘Well, now that that horrible man is gone, yes, everyone is so agreeable and calm. I could tell you stories about groups that were not so fun.’

‘You’ll have to do that sometime, over some good Icelandic whiskey,’ Greg said, laughing.

‘There is no good Icelandic whiskey! But I’m sure we could scare up some Lagavulin at the hotel bar.’

‘You’re on.’

The trip was much nicer than the earlier drive, now that the sun was up. The landscape was still austere, but it _was_ beautiful, in a minimalist way. They passed by hills of black lava sand, flat plains filled with tiny white flowers, streams that steamed in a rather alarming way. They went over a truss bridge that was near the ocean and could see spots on the beach that Reynard told them were seals. Greg wondered how the seals could live in such cold...and then he remembered that they could live in Antarctica. Or was that sea lions? No matter.

Soon enough they arrived at the baths. Everyone climbed off the bus--the driver, the same one as earlier, made sure to use the electric ramp for Rika--and they paired off by gender into the changing rooms.

Greg was highly amused to see that Reynard wore a Speedo suit. It left nothing to the imagination, and there was a lot to, well, not be imagined. Greg looked down at his flowered knee-length boxer-style bathing trunks and chuckled. To each their own.

They left the dressing room and Greg yelped. He’d forgotten how cold it was out, and now he was mostly exposed.

‘Come on, run to the bath!’ Reynard advised, though he was sauntering slowly, himself. Greg took the advice and ran and jumped in in a kind of canonball, since no one else was in there yet.

‘OUCH!’ The bath was as hot as the air had been cold.

‘What is that smell?’ Judy said with disgust as she emerged from the ladies’ changing room.

‘That’s the sulfur. It’s a natural smell from the Earth’s chemicals,’ Reynard called out.

‘Oh, ugh. I cannot take that smell.’

Greg reluctantly climbed out of the nice warm water. The cold air was now even colder on his wet skin.

‘Would you like to go into a sauna instead?’

‘If it will get me away from this odious smell.’

Reynard got out as well. He didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by the change in temperature. ‘Here, let me show you the way.’

‘Thanks, Reynard,’ Greg said, and ran back to the spring.

Rika and Jonesy were able to handle the sulfurous scent, and Helena went along, since she had to follow Rika everywhere. Rika was wearing a sensible navy blue one-piece and a bathing cap. Helena had a swimsuit that included sleeves and legs and looked to be thermal. Jonesy had on a standard-sized men’s suit that, like Greg’s, was floral.

‘Oh, this is very nice,’ Jonesy said, sinking into the spring on the stone bench under the water, leaving only his head out.

‘Yes, this is one of my favourite places,’ Helena agreed. ‘I don’t usually get to go here. If I’m not working, I don’t think to come out here in the country.’

‘Well, I’m glad we could give you a break,’ Greg said.

Rika just looked quietly pleased.

Reynard came back out and stepped into the bath with them.

‘Judy doesn’t want you in there with her, huh?’

‘I should say not. She decided to go without the towel,’ Reynard replied.

‘Good for her!” Jonesy said, chuckling.

‘I hope she can relax,’ Greg said.

‘I hope she can get that stick out of her arse,’ Jonesy muttered.

Greg laughed. ‘Now now, let’s give the poor woman some slack. There’s obviously something going on there.’ Greg immediately clapped his hand over his mouth. He didn’t need to be gossipping about his charges!

Rika smiled a rare smile but, as usual, said nothing. Helena just looked bored.

‘They did sit in separate rows,’ Reynard mused. ‘Do you think they’re having a spat?’

‘I think we should let them be,’ Greg said. ‘I’m sorry I said anything!’

For a while they were all quiet, soaking in the strong-smelling, soothingly hot water.

‘The minerals in this bath are supposed to cure many ailments,’ Reynard said in an unusually quiet voice. The relaxation was softening him. ‘There aren’t any scientific studies done on it, but people report all sorts of good things.’

‘How does this compare to the “Blue Lagoon” in Reykjavík?’ Greg asked. ‘I read that that’s a much more popular tourist destination.’

‘It is. That bath is more silica than sulfur, but it’s crowded with tourists and it’s very loud. I’m very glad you chose Laugarvatn instead.’

‘Happy to be of service,’ Greg said agreeably.

They lapsed into silence again. Rika closed her eyes. Greg sighed and looked around. Pretty rocks lined the pool, and hills and mountains rose up behind the wide lake nearby. With the overcast day, everything seemed to be in shades of grey and brown. Aside from the slight bubbling sound of one of the baths, there was a deep quiet around them. Greg felt something loosen inside him that he hadn’t even realized was clenched.

He found his mind drifting. He thought about poor Mycroft, stuffed into a suit and overseeing a tense meeting. That led him to think about the little room they had to share that evening. What would Mycroft do? How would he handle it? They were going to have to _sleep_ together (though not like that, of course!). 

Though what if they _could_ sleep together, “like that”? Greg let himself think about that for a few minutes. He imagined what it would be like to kiss Mycroft. Those red lips, so often in a stern line. What would they be like if he licked them open? Would they be soft and full? That sharp nose--would it press into his cheek? How would Mycroft respond if Greg gently shaped his face with his fingertips? Would he recoil in horror, or would he sigh and lean into the touch?

Greg realized that this line of thinking was not conducive to being in a public bath, even if his bathing trunks were large. He needed to think of something else, quickly. He thought back to the fish mousse that the awful restaurant had served as a “dessert” and was soon safe to be in polite company again.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to get out; the recommended soaking time is a half an hour,’ Reynard said.

Had it already been 30 minutes? The time had swept by so quickly. Greg had thought he’d be bored, just lying in hot water. Instead it had a been a transport to the mental state something like he’d heard happened with meditation.

‘What next?’ he asked.

‘Well, you’re welcome to go into the Finnish-style saunas--you splash water on the hot rocks, and it makes steam. Or you can try a dip in the lake, though I warn you, it’s startlingly cold. Or you can get dressed and come to the bread baking class.’

People started standing up, reluctantly, and moving toward the steps to get out of the pool. Greg decided to go ahead and get dressed so that he could be available for anyone who wanted to take part in any of the various activities. When Judy came out of the locker room, he took her up to the roof where they sat and looked out over the lake and the mountains. Reynard stayed below to direct anyone else up to them.

Rika and Helena went into the steam room; Jonesy took his time changing and came on up to the roof. Reynard had hot tea and chocolate sent up to the three of them, who sat there on hard outdoor chairs, bundled in jumpers and parkas and scarves and hats. Greg took off his gloves and wrapped his hands around the hot mug, sipping the cocoa gratefully.

Finally Reynard came up the stairs himself. ‘The bread class is beginning! Or we can just go eat some of the hot sands-baked bread in the restaurant.’ It was almost one o’clock, and the general agreement was to go partake of some food.

The restaurant was small, and the fare was a simple but hearty buffet of local trout, locally grown vegetables, and the thick-cut rye bread and Icelandic butter the little place was famous for. Everyone ate a lot, having caught on that many calories were needed to brace their bodies against the cold.

As everyone finished, Greg stood up. It seemed the thing to do, to stand up in front of his little clutch of people to let them know what was what.

‘We have several options of what to do in the bit of sunlight left to us today. We could go snorkeling in a glacier melt; we could go berry-picking in the lava fields; or we could go on a short whale-spotting tour.’

The unanimous vote was for the low-impact whale-watching tour. It was a short drive from the hot springs center. The hotel had arranged a small, family-owned boat to take them out for an hour. Each person was given a life jacket and a thick wool blanket to wrap around them. The wind and spray whipped past them and Greg was very glad for the blanket, even with all his layers. All the clouds reflected on the water, and the sea was very dark.

And suddenly, a shape arose, and it surfaced and blew sea water high out of its blowhole. Everyone oohed and aahed.

‘Look at that, what a magnificent whale,’ Rika said.

‘You what? You speak English?’ Greg asked, flabbergasted.

‘But of course I speak English. Why wouldn’t you think I speak English? Look, look at that!’ She pointed and leaned over the boat. Reynard yanked at her waist and pulled her back.

‘Careful there!’ he chided.

‘But...but Helena! You have a translator! And you never speak!’ Greg cried.

‘I haven’t had anything to say. _You_ all are the ones who decided I needed a translator. Helena is a lovely girl, she’s gotten to have a little break these two days, haven’t you, Helena?’

Helena smiled serenely.

‘You big liar!’ Greg said admiringly. ‘You, and you!’ He pointed at Helena. ‘Both of you! Put us to shame, you have. I guess we all made assumptions, didn’t we?’

Reynard was laughing so hard he was doubled over, and his blanket had fallen off. Jonesy was giggling. Judy was busy watching the whale with Rika.

As the boat puttered around, they ended up in the middle of a whale pod, which seemed to decide the boat was a friend and swam and cavorted around them. Greg had never imagined seeing anything like it. He was almost able to ignore the frigid air and spume. 

‘Greg,’ Rika said seriously, grabbing his arm once the whales have left them. ‘You have to make sure that this deal goes through. These creatures are too important to end up as food on our tables.’

‘Have you ever eaten whale?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘I have. It’s not very good, but it is considered a delicacy. But look at them. They were following us; they were _playing_ with us, like dolphins. I’ve heard they’re very intelligent. We must stop killing them.’

‘I agree, Rika. I’ll do what I can. Will you be able to talk to George?’

‘I certainly will, Greg. I certainly will.’

Her English was almost without accent. Shows what happens when you make assumptions, Greg thought.

The ride back to the hotel was a quiet one. Greg was grateful for the warm bus. Everyone seemed lost in thought. He wondered if they were soporific from their activities, or if they were worrying about the deal that involved whales, like he was. Mycroft just _had_ to make this work; it would stop the Japanese from flaunting the international ban on whale hunting.

It just _had_ to work.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events...particularly the room!...were actually in a New York Times article! The one-bed in a cleaning room actually happened! Of course, I think they were already married. (What will Mycroft and Greg do with one bed? Oh no!)
> 
> [In Iceland, Seeking a Luxury Hotel Amid the Rustic Charm](https://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/21/travel/in-iceland-seeking-a-luxury-hotel-amid-the-rustic-charm.html), Goldfield, 2015


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are the negotiations a bust? Will they have to sleep together in a tiny bed? How will they get out of this one?

As they straggled back into the hotel lobby, Greg pulled Judy aside.

‘Judy, I can’t help noticing that you seem a little down. Would you like to have a drink in the bar and talk about it?’

She looked at him for a minute, then sagged a bit. ‘Yeah, I really would. Thank you.’

The bar was a glass cage protruding from the front of the building. It had floor-to-ceiling windows with a beautiful view of the surrounding hills. The sun had gone down, and the Northern Lights were just starting to flicker above them. Judy ordered a cosmopolitan and Greg got a local ale, and they sat together on a comfortable couch.

‘What’s going on? I hope it’s not too nosy, but it seems that you and Minsa have had a falling out.’

‘“Falling out?”’

‘An argument, a disagreement.’

‘Yes, you could say that.’

‘You want to talk about it?’ Greg prompted again.

Judy sighed heavily and sipped her drink. ‘You see, I want to move to London.’

‘Aw, London’s great! You’d have such a great time! It’s the best city in the world!’ 

‘Yes, I think so too.’

‘But Minsu doesn’t, huh?’

‘She wouldn’t mind living in London, not too much, anyway. But her mother lives near us in Seoul, and she can’t take her mother with us.’

‘Why not?’

‘We can’t afford the assisted living facilities in London, and her mother is no longer able to live with us. We can’t take care of her properly.’

Greg looked at her sadly. ‘Well, that’s a shitty situation. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean that’s an unfortunate situation.’

Judy laughed a little. ‘No, you were right. It’s a shitty situation.’

Mycroft entered the lounge. Greg's eyes were drawn instantly to Mycroft, and he was startled to see Mycroft looking more discouraged than he had the night before. Mycroft actually didn’t see Greg, he was so preoccupied. He ordered a whiskey at the bar and left without looking around.

‘Excuse me, Judy, I have to go check on Mr Holmes.’

‘Of course, Greg. Thank you for letting me talk to you.’ 

He thought maybe she was being a little sarcastic, given that they’d talked for three minutes, but he couldn’t be bothered. Mycroft was his primary worry.

Once he left the lounge, though, Mycroft was nowhere in sight. He didn’t know where the conference rooms were. He stuck his head in the restaurant, but Mycroft wasn’t there either.

On a hunch, he decided to go down to their crappy room. Crappy or not, it still required a keycard, and as soon as he opened the door, he saw that he’d been right--Mycroft was on the bed, leaning against the wall, a pillow behind his back. His long legs were stretched out on the bed and his shoes were still on. Now Greg knew that all was lost--Mycroft had his shoes up on the bed.

‘Mycroft, talk to me. What happened?’

Mycroft looked startled, even though the door hadn’t been particularly quiet. He’d really been lost in a haze of misery. 

‘It’s all for naught, Greg. The deal has fallen apart.’

‘Okay, first, get your shoes off our crappy bed.’

Mycroft looked surprised to find that his shoes were on the bed in the first place and quickly took them off, propping his sock-covered feet back up. It was strange to see him in his full suit, watch chain and all, and sock feet.

‘Now, tell me what happened.’

‘What I didn’t tell you is that this negotiation was an edict from the queen.’

‘You what?’

‘I was to secure the newly opened Northwest Passage for our government. It was to be British- (and, by proxy, Canadian-) owned territory.’

‘Wait a minute. Why does the queen give a shit who owns the Northwest Passage? I can understand maybe Parliament wanting the funding rights...’

‘You don’t understand. Her grandmother lost ships and a lot of good men hunting for and dying to find this passage. Now that it is opening up, our queen saw a way to vindicate Queen Victoria and the lives of those brave men.’

Greg stared at Mycroft.

‘All this is for something Queen Victoria fucked up a hundred and fifty years ago?’

‘More like a hundred and seventy. And there were a lot of other benefits to this deal. But yes, that was the driving force.’

Greg took off his own shoes and settled onto the bed next to Mycroft.

They were quiet for a minute as Mycroft sipped the whiskey he'd brought from the bar.

‘Do you know why Judy and Minsu are fighting?’ Greg asked.

‘No, I don’t. I’m not sure I was aware they were fighting.’

Now Greg was really worried. It wasn’t like Mycroft to miss something like that.

‘Judy wants to move to London, and Minsu would do it, but Minsu’s mom is in a home and they can’t afford London retirement home prices.’

Mycroft sighed. ‘That’s so easily solved it’s laughable. I can’t imagine that’s holding things up...wait a minute. Minsu has been oddly recalcitrant about the post-Brexit South Korean amenities. It couldn’t be something as simple as that…and yet, of course it could. I didn’t have all the data. Greg, you’re a genius!’ Mycroft leaned over and kissed Greg full on the lips.

They both stared at each other for a minute. Then Mycroft grinned the biggest grin Greg had ever seen on him, and he hopped off the bed.

‘The negotiations are back on!’

As Mycroft ran out of the room--shoes neatly slipped back on--Greg put his hand to his lips. Had that actually happened? Mycroft... _kissed_ him? 

Greg spent a few minutes looking at the bed--which was not the largest double he’d ever seen; when they were both sitting on it, they had almost been touching--and wondered what would happen that night. Would one of them sleep on the floor? Well, no, there really wasn’t much floor left to sleep on with the bed there. Would one have to go sleep on a couch in the lounge? 

...Or would they both sleep, together, in this bed, where it was almost impossible not to touch?

He let his mind wander, feeling his lips tingle where Mycroft had kissed him. Why had Mycroft kissed him? Wouldn’t a fellow “guy” just kind of give him a celebratory clap on the shoulder? What was Mycroft thinking? 

He realized he was feeling a little...interested, after that kiss. He adjusted himself. The door was closed. There was a wall of shelves full of tiny shampoos, soaps, and conditioners next to him. And tiny lotions. He reached over and took a tiny lotion off the wall of supplies. He opened it and sniffed it. It smelled of the ocean, and sandalwood. It smelled nice. And it was slippery.

Looking once more at the door, he eased down his zipper. It had been two days since he’d last jacked off. That was unheard-of since he had hit puberty; masturbation was just a standard part of his daily routine. Iceland--and Michelle, his horrible ex--had upset a lot of things, but this was something he could do something about. He eased back against the pillows, squished some lotion out into his hand (why were those bottles always so badly shaped? Half the stuff just stayed inside) and slorped it onto his cock, which had filled all the way out at the welcome idea of relief. He sighed and felt all his muscles relax as he stroked himself slowly.

‘I forgot my--’

Shit. He hadn’t locked the door. 

Mycroft came in quickly and closed the door behind him. Greg grabbed a pillow and put it on top of his straining, eager cock. Damn. Now there was lotion all over one of the two crappy pillows.

‘Gregory, I am so sorry. I should have knocked.’

Greg coughed. ‘Um. I should have locked the door.’

They stared at each other.

‘Mycroft...either come in and _do_ something, or please leave me to my mortification…’

Mycroft stalked the one step to the bed and lifted the pillow off.

‘I’m afraid you’ve besmirched my pillow.’

Greg could feel his face was flushed red. So was his cock, which hadn’t softened in the face of humiliation.

‘Is that...lotion? On you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Makes it hard for a fellow to go down on you, doesn’t it,’ Mycroft said conversationally.

‘What?’

‘I guess I’ll just have to give you a hand with that.’

Greg put the pillow back over his crotch.

‘Mycroft, I’m sorry you found me like this, but what the fuck are you on about?’

‘I’m sorry, Gregory, would you rather I pretend to ignore that I’ve found you with your trousers around your thighs, a luscious dick in your hand, in the midst of an incredibly tense situation where you just saved the day?’

Greg’s mouth was hanging open. All he could say was, ‘What?’

Mycroft sighed.

‘Gregory, I’ve been attracted to you for years. We’re trapped together in a tiny room with a single bed like something out of a 1930s Hollywood movie. You’ve just discovered something that is going to single-handedly,’ he coughed politely, ‘save my relationship with the Queen. I was suggesting that I reward you in a way that might be pleasing to us both. I guess I misread your signals. I am so very sorry.’

He turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob.

‘No, wait, wait Mycroft. You’re not reading me wrong. This is just...I didn’t know you were interested...this is kind of happening really quickly. And I thought you needed to go repair things with your people, now that you have the key to resolving it?’

Mycroft lifted his hand from the doorknob and sat on the side of the bed. He really didn’t have to move to do so; the room was ridiculously tiny.

‘I do need to go meet with “my people.” It’s just that one doesn’t run into this sort of situation outside of, well, the movies. I couldn’t resist.’

‘How about we meet up outside the lounge after dinner, for a date with some drinks and the Northern Lights? And we could talk?’

Greg was hoping Mycroft wouldn’t move the pillow again. His cock had caught up with the proceedings and was quite shriveled. 

‘Yes, I think that is a wise decision. And might I request that when you leave, you ask housekeeping for a couple of extra pillows? No need to say why.’

Greg blushed all over again, and Mycroft took his leave.

* * *

Dinner was odd. Everyone in their group ended up sitting at separate tables, but there was a lot of mingling between. 

‘What happened at the last meeting?’ Greg asked Mycroft in a low voice. They were on the fish course. Greg was getting a little tired of fish.

‘It was astounding. I spoke to Minsu before the meeting and offered to put her, her mother, and Judy into a lovely setting in Belgrave. There’s a fantastic assisted-living place there. The care home and their apartment would be paid for outright, and Minsu would have a position in my office. She was amenable. 

'Then, before I could even call the meeting to order, George declared that Japan would stop whaling altogether. I didn’t do anything to prompt that--nothing I had said had had any effect on him. He was adamant about continuing to have his whale meat to eat, until this meeting. Wanda was astounded and said the Inuit would be thrilled.’ Mycroft gave Greg a hard look. ‘Somehow I think you had something to do with that.’

‘All I know is that we went whaling,' Greg said, 'and Rika seemed to enjoy it.’

‘Ah HA.’

Greg and Mycroft grinned at each other.

‘The "spouses approach" won out,’ Mycroft declared.

At another table, the Makaras and translator Helena were having rather a lot of saki. There was loud laughter and, as Greg and Mycroft looked over, they saw Helena give Rika a deep and evidently tongue-filled kiss. Then she turned to George and did the same.

‘Huh,’ Greg and Mycroft said at the same time.

‘That explains some things,’ Mycroft added.

Jonesy came up to their table.

‘I don’t know how to thank you enough, Mycroft,’ he said. ‘We work with the Inuit, and the hassle they’ve been getting about their whaling--which, as you know, sustains them throughout the year--has been forcing them to go to the tiny grocery stores in their communities, which have wilted lettuce for ten dollars a pound. Having the pressure off of them for their ancestral way of life will be an enormous help. They will be much more tolerant of ships passing through the new Northwest Passage. Thank you, you’ve done a native people a huge service today.’

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile and took a sip of the excellent wine.

The ubiquitous lamb course arrived and Greg dug in.

‘Not even any mint jelly,’ he mumbled. Mycroft laughed outright.

The whole dining room seemed to be filled with light, more so than the elegant chandeliers, table candles, and subdued track lighting accounted for. Outside the windows, the Northern Lights had begun to play in earnest. 

* * *

By the time they finished desert, the other people in their group had left the restaurant. Mycroft and Greg got some Irish coffees and moved outside. An area was set up with space heaters and lounge chairs where one could watch the Northern Lights and the stars.

'They really are something,' Greg said, gesturing at the undulating green flickers.

'Yes, if you've never seen them before, they can be revelatory,' Mycroft agreed.

They sat sipping their coffee.

'Mycroft, can I confess something?'

'Of course.'

'I'm really bored.'

Mycroft laughed.

'I mean they're pretty and all,' Greg went on, 'but after you've looked at them for a little, it's like okay, there's some lights in the sky, they're mostly green and they move around. Am I missing something?'

'No, I have to say that I've often had trouble watching them for more than a few minutes.'

'Excuse me,' a staff member said, standing next to Greg's chair. 'May I interrupt?'

'By all means,' Greg said.

'We've sorted out the problem with your room. One of our guests left early, so while it isn't the suite, we've moved your things into a regular room. There are two double-beds. Tomorrow we should be able to move you into the proper two-bedroom suite.'

'Oh, thank you,' Greg answered. Mycroft growled and the staff member scampered away.

'Still no suite,' Mycroft said darkly. 'There will be repercussions.'

'Well, at least it's getting us out of the cleaning closet.'

Mycroft sighed. 'There is that, at least.'

They were quiet for a minute.

'We'll have our own beds,' Greg said softly.

'Yes, we will.'

There was more quiet. Then Mycroft reached out and took Greg's hand. 'I was looking forward to being forced to sleep together.'

Greg looked over at him with a wide grin. 'You too? We can still share a bed, you know.'

'You wouldn't mind?'

'Rather the opposite, Mycroft. I was hoping for it. We will just have to negotiate over who will be the little spoon.'

~end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to savvyblunders and ylc1 for their patient beta support, and to Elaine (agent-elaine) for the amazing photos of Iceland that helped sculpt my vision of the landscape. And thanks to all my readers and the wonderful folks on BLU DOC for your encouragement, comments, kudos, and for being here for my first Mystrade!


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